Bad Boys
by Loconut321
Summary: (Sabriel, eventual Destiel) Dean had decided to stay at Sonny's home for troubled boys, leaving Sam to fend for himself. Takes place in 2005; when Wendigo starts, the rest is an AU. Sam is 22, and it has been about 10 years after Dean left (approximately 1995).
1. Chapter 1

Bad Boys

…

**Summary**: Dean had decided to stay at Sonny's home for troubled boys, leaving Sam to fend for himself. Takes place in 2005; when Wendigo starts, the rest is an AU. Sam is 22, and it has been about 10 years after Dean left (approximately 1995).

…

Chapter 1: Wendigo

…

Sam couldn't remember a whole lot about Dean.

Sure, he remembered the few hunts John had dragged the pair on, but it was the _little_ things that had made Sam and Dean brothers. Small things, such as the time Dean had stuck Nair into his shampoo; or when Sam had run away and lived with a dog named Bones for a week until, inevitably, Dean had tracked him down and brought him home.

He had hardly been twelve and a half when John had found a hunt. His father had left Sam at Bobby Singer's house and had taken Dean with him. John then had left Dean at a farm property run by a man everyone called Sonny. When the hunt ended, and his father picked him up to retrieve Dean; his brother had chosen to stay at Sonny's home; preferring the sanctity of the farm property rather traveling the country, hunting monsters, vampires, werewolves, _whatever_, with his father and little brother. He hadn't have even come to say his goodbyes. The last words he had ever spoken to the teenage hunter were the fight they had had two weeks before over who got the last slice of Papa John's pizza. Not that he blamed him for staying, of course. He had been a great brother to him when he was around, and frankly Dean had deserved better.

Sam's older brother had been gone for about ten years now. During all that time, John Winchester had trained the younger hunter harder than he had ever bothered to do so with Dean. It was as if he was afraid that Sam too would leave him some day. John drilled him with the old military tactics he had been taught when he had fought in the Vietnam War; sometimes for days on end with little rest. He would teach Sam every hunting tactic he knew, from digging yourself out of a buried grave to target practice so concise Sam was now able to shoot a coke bottle off of his father's outstretched hand from a football field away.

And Samuel Winchester hated him for it.

He hated hunting. He hated the loneliness of the job. He hated losing the people that he had grown fond of. He hated John's attitude towards the jobs they worked. He hated the responsibility he held. He hated how, even after all this time, John still treated Sam like a child.

He hated it all.

There were some nights, when he had given up on sleeping; that he wondered what it would have been like if Dean hadn't left him. Would his brother have taken care of him? Would he talk with Sam about why he shouldn't hate himself as much as he did? What would he have said about the little girl Sam was unable to save not a week before, and Sam had been forced to watch that werewolf tear her apart while he fought two others? Would he even have cared? Once he had tried to ask John about Dean, and John had shoved the barrel of a gun into his chest and made Sam promise to never mention Dean again. He'd replied with a quiet "yes sir," and slunk off to find a beer. That had been when he was fourteen; eight years ago. He stuck to his promise.

"Sam!" John barked from the other side of the slick, black, 1967 Impala.

"Yes sir?" He said, startled, breaking out of his though-filled head.

"Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help me set up for tonight?"

"What are we hunting again?" Sam asked weakly.

"Wendigo! Weren't you listening at all?" John snarled, looking at Sam like _he_ was the wendigo, rather than the monster they were actually hunting.

"Sorry," the younger hunter sighed, walking around the front of the car to help his father with a large navy green duffle bag he was pulling from the back seat.

"'Sorry' doesn't save any lives. Go get everything else; I can lift this just fine by myself."

The Winchester grunted a submissive affirmation, moving to unlock the trunk and pull out several flare guns, an empty backpack, and a blow torch. He set the weapons none-too-gently inside the fabric casing before slamming the hood and slinging it all onto his back. He returned to his father.

"Got everything?"

Sam shook his head yes.

"Let's go, we can make it to the campground by sunset if we hurry."

The hunter shook his head again, following his father into the dense woodland. It quickly grew dark as they walked along in silence, save for the snapping of twigs and the swishing of foliage as it brushed their ankles, only to return itself to its former position just as quickly. He found himself with his hand on the small flip knife he always kept with him in his pocket. John had given it to him when he was six (not that he hadn't already wielded a machete and similar weapons before, but he had never been allowed to keep them), and it had served him well. It had gotten out of many sticky situations to say the least.

They trudged onwards for hours, the air growing colder and colder around them as time stretched on. Checking his watch, Sam found it to be already five 'o clock. They had been walking for four and a half hours without stopping. He really needed to pee.

"Sir?"

"What?" came his father's annoyed retort.

"Can we stop for a few minutes?"

"What? No."

"I need to go to the bathroom," the younger Winchester all but snarled.

He could practically feel John's glower on him, even though he was still facing ahead. Sam knew better than to instigate an argument with him on a hunt (or ever), but he just couldn't help himself today for some reason. They had been on unsure footing since this morning.

"We are not stopping."

"But-"

"It'll just give you more incentive to get this over with sooner, then," John said in a matter-of-factly tone. Sam knew he wouldn't say anything else about it. So he settled for instead glaring a hole into the back of his father's head while itching uncomfortably - that soda reminding him that it was still there.

They reached the campsite a little later than John had accounted for. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that engulfed whatever light there had been left in the already-dark woods. The temperature dropped another five degrees. Sam pulled his jacket zipper up to his neck in order to conserve body heat for later in the evening. They sure wouldn't be getting out of there tonight.

The campsite itself seemed normal enough, a small fire cackling to itself, stacked high with dry logs waiting to catch fire. Two medium sized tents sat next to each other, their insides already dark. Either their residents sleeping (unlikely, the logs had just been put on the fire) or they had gone out walking. Sam hoped that they were sleeping.

"Check that tent, Sam."

"Fine."

The older hunter made towards the small of the two shelters, leaving Sam with the tent to the left. "Hello...?" The Winchester called out.

No answer. It's not like he had been expecting one anyways. He was hoping it would stop the sinking feeling in his gut, but to no avail.

Unzipping the tent door as quietly as he could, he peered inside. The space was dark, cold, and drafty. That was probably because a huge hole had been viciously torn through the stiff canvas that constituted the back wall. Clear signs of a struggle could be seen against, what was probably the wendigo, dragged its victims away.

"They were just here!" Sam called out to his father who was searching the other tent.

"Good, we can still catch it before dark," John said, mostly to himself. "Hand me a flare gun, Sam."

Quickly swinging the backpack off of his shoulders, he reached into the semi-open bag and closed his hand around the object in question, tossing it to the older hunter. The Winchester caught it in one hand, already making his way towards the scene of the crime.

"It looks like there were two campers," Sam said.

"Looks like it," John muttered, climbing into the tent and out the ripped hole in the back. The younger man followed suit. "Stick with me. This thing is a better hunter than either of us."

"Right."

Without another word, the two men slipped into the trees.

Sam kept a tight grip on the flare gun in his hand, carefully cataloguing any sounds and movements in his head, deciding if they were dangerous or not. The tracks were easy enough to follow, making both hunters nervous. This was almost certainly a trap.

A sudden, piecing scream called ahead of them.

"Careful," John said in a quiet monotone, "They can mimic human sounds."

Sam swallowed thickly and did not respond as the screaming sounded again. It was a girl's voice, maybe in her twenties. He hoped that John was right, and that it was, in fact, the wendigo.

"Stay here," the older man said.

He had wanted to ask why, but Sam was sure that his father wouldn't answer him anyways.

The Winchester watched as John slipped into the foliage and disappeared. Fingering the knife in his pocket, he figured that John would be a few minutes. He might as well take the time to pee.

Minutes passed and Sam was feeling immensely better. Idly mulling over why he had gotten that soda in the first place, it took him far too long to realize that it was dark and John was still gone. A few more minutes and he realized that the older hunter would not have taken so long if he were not truly in trouble.

Another minute passed before Sam worked up the courage to go and look for him. It wasn't the monster he was afraid of, anyways.

Placing his face in a stony mask, he slipped ahead into the woods. The area was thicker than what they had previously encountered. Branches snapped at his face like angry snakes, biting his skin and leaving red marks. The hunter hardly noticed. Sam, for as big as he was, tried to stay as quiet as possible, which was nearly impossible; especially in this terrain. Sure, he was pretty darn graceful for his size, but even he had limits.

Striding bravely forward, he eventually ran into what seemed to be an abandoned mine. Jackpot. Without too much more consideration, he slipped inside.

The mine was moist and cold, water dripping from the ceiling and the rough walls. Keeping on the lookout for anything suspicious, the hunter kept moving. For about fifteen minutes he searched, memorizing the interior layout of the tunnels easily enough. Still, he had not found too much quite yet.

Suddenly, somebody screamed from right behind him.

Whirling around quickly, he brought the flare gun up defensively in front of him, intending to shoot the target on sight.

Nothing was there.

Narrowing his eyes in confusion, he was not ready when the backpack he had been sporting was suddenly jerked off roughly and disappeared, along with the thing that did it. It was all Sam could do not to yell out any profanity and give away his position any more than it had been. He wished that he hadn't just grabbed one measly flare gun.

Taking a few, calming breaths the Winchester gathered himself and trudged down a random hallway.

The passage he had chosen apparently was just another dead end. Same rough, wet walls, same echoed sounds of the tennis shoes the hunter was wearing slapping against the floor, same emptiness to be found.

That was, of course, until he had nearly reached the end of the hallway, when he had abruptly fallen through some damp, water-damaged wood boards covering up a cave-like room.

Sam groaned, lying on his back on the dirt floor, which sapped all the heat from his body quickly enough. He sat there for a few more moments before, with a little bit of trouble, clambering to his feet and looking around at his surroundings. A few small shafts of silver light trailed into the cavern from cracks near the roof - it must be night outside already. As his sight adjusted to the weak moonlight, he noticed the two bodies strung up from the stalagmites. One was softly groaning and the other seemed to be unconscious.

"Don't worry," Sam assured them quietly, going into rescue mode. "I'm gonna get you out of here."

"Who are you?" The conscious one asked. He was a boy, maybe eighteen, if not younger. "Where are we?" He breathed; a note if panic in his voice.

"It's okay, I'm Sam. Sam Winchester. My... partner should be here any minute." He hoped.

"Sam," the boy said, testing it on his tongue.

Working quickly, the hunter pulled the knife out of his jeans, silently giving thanks to whoever made him as tall as he was, as he sawed away at the ropes binding the poor kid's hands above his head. With an audible snap, the rope broke and the boy tumbled to the floor in a heap. Offering a hand, the other man accepted it and Sam hoisted him to his feet. He began work on the other camper, a girl in her twenties. The Winchester tried not to think about the screams from earlier.

"I'm Ben Collins," the boy said after a few moments of silence.

"It's nice to meet you, Ben."

"We were looking for my brother, my sister and I. That's my sister. Is she okay?" Ben rattled.

"Your sister should be fine," Sam assured, "Just unconscious."

"What happened? Why are we here? Who did this? Wha-"

"Ben," the hunter interrupted, "You're fine, and we are going to get out of here. My partner and I are park rangers, there is a man lose out here in these woods and we came looking for you," he lied seamlessly.

Ben was quiet for a while, leaving Sam to cut his sister down in peace. Eventually, she too fell from her suspended state, and Sam caught her easily. Her eyes fluttered open.

"Wha…?"

"Haley!" Ben announced, at her side immediately. He relinquished her over to her brother.

"Shh!" The Winchester hushed them both, looking around to see if the wendigo had found then yet. This was too easy, and where was John? Instead of dwelling on what he couldn't answer, he began to search for the flare gun that had been lost when he fell into the cave he now found himself in.

"We need to go," Sam said, lifting the lost weapon from the ground.

"Who are you?" Haley asked finally, looking over him quizzically.

"That's Sam. He's a park ranger."

"He isn't in a uniform."

"It's easier to search the woods in these," Sam said as smoothly as he could. Neither of them were really in a position to deny his help anyways, so Haley merely nodded her head slightly in silent consent. Steeling himself, he told them to follow him and stay close no matter what they heard.

"No matter what we _hear_?" Haley and Ben asked in mutual confusion.

"Yeah, this guy is a maniac; I don't want you getting hurt."

"If this guy is so insane, then why didn't they send the FBI or something? I don't think that park rangers are really up for this kind of job," Haley commented dryly, limping along just behind him.

Sam smiled slightly to himself. Haley was a pretty smart girl, and she was taking the whole "life or death" situation very well so far. "It's nothing I can't handle, trust me."

"Sam…?" Ben asked in a tight voice.

"What is it?"

"I think I just saw something moving behind us."

The hunter gritted his teeth. He needed to get these people the fuck out of here, now. If the wendigo was following them, it was going to be a lot harder for them to escape unharmed. Not that he thought the monster even ever lost track of them.

"Ben, Haley, go in front of me. Act _normal_."

The two of them complied stiffly, Ben barely managing to keep it together at all. Haley put a comforting hand on his shoulder before ushering him ahead of her. The sight brought a small jolt to his heart, reminding him of Dean. The Winchester shook his head angrily, ridding himself of the notion.

The close sound of a pebble clattering to the floor told Sam that they were indeed not alone. He also recognized that they were close to the entrance. If only-

A large, tall, spindly creature leapt out at them from behind a corner on all fours. It screeched inhumanly, swiping a clawed hand at Ben, who was white with terror at the front of their impromptu pack. Haley (luckily), on the other hand, was more on the ball; snatching the boy and dragging him away from the beast. The wendigo in turn, snarled, lurching forward; bringing itself to stand on its own two feet. It stood over the trio, tall and imposing; gnashing its bloody teeth together in a grin straight out of a nightmare.

"Get behind me, now!" Sam yelled, whipping out his flare gun.

The brother and sister stumbled to their designated spot, both terrified out of their wits. The creature snarled again, evaluating the situation. Suddenly, it leapt at Sam, knocking him to the floor, tearing at his clothes; leaving long, bloody gashes in its wake. The wendigo's rancid, hot breath blew into Sam's face, nearly making the hunter puke right then and there. Instead of the former, the Winchester shoved the end of the flare into the creature's chest and pulled the trigger.

The thing howled, falling backwards off of the hunter's body, scrabbling away from the humans as fast as it could; but, it was too late. The damage had been dealt, and soon the supernatural being was nothing more than a pile of dust and ash to assure that it had ever existed.

Letting out a pent-up sigh, Sam clambered up from the ground, brushing dirt off of his clothes as he went; groaning at the psi he wounds caused as they protested. Turning to Haley and Ben, he found them wide-eyed and silent, staring at him like he too was going to go up in flames at any moment. Sam had to resist the urge to check and make sure that he wasn't actually on fire.

"Are you guys alright?" Sam asked eventually.

The two were quiet, until Ben said in a tiny voice "Shouldn't we be asking you the same question?"

And for the life of him, Sam couldn't explain why he burst into laughter


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Leaving Note

…

Sam had explained what he could to Ben and Haley, making sure to stress the point never to tell anyone this; otherwise it merited a one way ticket to an asylum. The two of them seemed to absorb anything he said, anywhere from "I hunt monsters" to "I don't know where your brother is".

"There is one thing I was wondering about," Haley said to Sam as he bound the gashes covering his arms.

"What?"

"Where did your partner go?"

Sam froze. He had completely forgotten about his own dad.

"Uh... Good point."

Ben frowned at the taller man. "You said that he was a way better hunter than you. He should be fine."

The Winchester chuckled slightly, admitting to himself that that was true. "It would take more than a wendigo to take him down."

Haley smiled warmly at Sam, who managed a faint grin back. His grin quickly turned into a grimace as he pulled the last bandage tight.

"Well," he said, standing up. The sun had barely peeked over the tree line, indicating that it was now morning. "I think I should be going now. The real park rangers are on their way, and if you just stick to your stories, this will all blow over pretty fast. Trust me; people only believe what they want to believe."

"Sam? Wait!" Haley called as he turned to make the long trek back to the Impala without his father.

"Hmm?"

Haley ran up to him, stood on her toes and pecked the hunter on his cheek, to which he blushed slightly, and started to get flustered.

"That's for saving our asses," she said, smiling before turning, returning to her stunned little brother.

Giving a wave that was symbolic of their final goodbye, Sam slid into the frost-covered woods of Blackwater Ridge.

The air was colder than it had been the night before, and the fact that Sam's jacket was still soaked in his own blood wasn't helping in the least. He could manage, though, for a few hours. It hadn't been the first time and it was not going to be the last.

Birds chirped in the pine trees around him merrily, and a squirrel ran across one of his shoes, its mouth chock full of nuts. The Winchester suddenly found himself idly flipping his knife open and shut in one hand; a nervous habit he'd had for a long time. He could remember when it started. There had been some kind of poltergeist haunting a small town somewhere in Utah. He had been fifteen when he and John had gone to investigate. Under no circumstances should it have been a difficult hunt. That was before they knew about the witch that had also been running around during the time.

It had been raining, so Sam had gone under an overhang while John dug up the grave. That was when the witch had decided to kidnap the fifteen-year-old Sam Winchester; taking him to her house in a neighboring town. John didn't even notice until the next morning. Don't ask how he missed something that big.

The old woman (her name was Gina, but he wanted to forget that name) testing new "potions", consisting of various substances from Sam. She took fingernails (which actually is a legitimate torture method, that was another thing he wanted to forget), all the skin from the bottom of his left foot, too much blood, and anything else she could get her skinny, pale hands on without killing him. Supposedly, she was trying to raise Satan or something, but nothing she said would have made Sam hate her more than he already did.

John eventually saved him (two days later), and all he said was "Should've used that knife. That's why I gave it to you anyways." Sam never really put it away after then.

The day lagged onwards, and the hunter soon found himself gazing upon the Impala, left still in pristine shape. John probably hadn't been back here.

Pulling the key from a zipped pocket on the inside of his jacket, he unlocked the door to the driver's seat and plopped down, exhaling sharply. After a few moments of just breathing in the leathery interior car smell, he sat up and made to stick the key into the ignition. Something white at the corner of his vision caught his eye before he could do so.

It was John's journal.

_Oh shit_, Sam thought, _he doesn't go anywhere without that._

Quickly viewing the notebook, he found it to be turned to a blank page, with only a few simple words written on it.

_I knew you could handle it._

Below the black inked words was written a small string of numbers – obviously coordinates. He knew his father's handiwork anywhere. In fact, they had been to that particular place before as well; clearing out a nest of vampires. It was an old abandoned shoe factory from the '20s about 200 miles from where he sat at the moment.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled out his cell phone from the glove compartment. He and John had left them here in the car because there had been no way they would actually get service up in the mountains. Sam shuffled through the other phones, noticing that John's was gone.

"Son of a bitch," the Winchester growled. What game was the older hunter playing? Was this some kind of test? Hadn't he already proved himself enough to his father?

Rubbing the back of his neck absently, Sam dialed John's speed dial, turning on the speaker. It rang once, twice, three times…

"_Sorry Sam, I'm busy right now. Leave a message; we'll talk later."_

_Beep._

"Dad, where are you? Why did you leave me without telling me? Is this some kind of a test?" Sam found himself saying angrily. "You didn't like it when _I _leave without warning you first, so why are you doing it to me? Call me back, okay?"

He hit the end button and tossed the cell phone onto the passenger's seat.

The hunter let out a sigh. He might as well head towards that old shoe factory; see if he could track John down himself. He couldn't have gotten ridiculously far with only a few hours head start. He turned on the engine and pulled onto the road, heading south towards his destination. Once he was situated, Sam turned on his iPod jack, giving the ride a quiet background noise.

It was about an hour later when Sam decided to stop to eat. It was one in the afternoon and the roadside diner was bustling. Apparently, it was a quality place. Situating himself on a bar stool, he waited to be served.

A short man, probably in his thirties, walked over to the Winchester, brandishing a pen and a notebook. He had a friendly face, smiling widely at Sam, who smiled slightly in return. "What can I get you, sir?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously.

"Black coffee and a Caesar salad for here would be nice."

"Anything else?" the man said, leaning forward ever so slightly.

"No," the Winchester replied, looking down at the table.

"Alright then. You look like you went ten rounds with a bear and lost; what's got you so down?"

"Family problems," he muttered, only just loud enough to let the other man hear.

"Siblings?"

"My dad," he admitted.

"Oh, I see," the man said. "Well, if I know anything about dads, it's that sometimes, you just don't _get_ them. Something happens, and you're left wondering what went wrong."

Sam looked up from the beige bar top, considering his waiter. He seemed serious enough.

"I know what you mean," the hunter admitted.

"Got anyone else to go to?"

"Not really. I had a brother once, but he is gone now."

"Gone?" the man said, surprised. Sam had been expecting something more along the lines of pity, or even understanding if he was lucky. Surprise was not one of those things. Why was he surprised?

"I don't really want to talk about it…" the hunter looked for a nametag, "Gabe."

"Sure, no problem. Since you know my name, it's only polite to tell me yours."

"Uh, my name's Sam."

"Nice to meet you Sam. I'll be right back with your order."

The man flounced off.

The Winchester was picking at his nails when Gabe returned, holding a large ceramic cup, a pitcher full of coffee and a plate piled high with all the ingredients to a salad. He dropped them in front of Sam like one would give a treat to a puppy.

"So," Gabe began, leaning against the counter, "Where are you heading? I know the look of a man on a mission, and you fit the definition to a "t". Care to spill the secret?"

"It's kind of hard to explain…" The hunter said, taking a sip of his drink, which turned out to be fantastic.

"Try me."

"Well," Sam spluttered, looking for a viable excuse, "I don't really _know _you…"

"Are you seriously giving me the "stranger danger" speech?"

Sam simply shrugged, looking away.

"What are you, four? I'm not going to bite. Without consent, anyways."

"Kinky much?" Sam said before he could stop himself.

Gabe laughed loudly.

Smiling, the hunter snuck a bite of his salad. So far the diner had been surpassing its expectations. He was pleasantly astounded.

"You know, I get off at four; if you want someone to talk to, look me up." Taking out his pen from his apron pocket, he jotted down a series of numbers and words on a napkin, sliding it to the Winchester. With a final shake of his eyebrows, he turned and walked away.

Sam looked at the napkin, wondering if it was actually real. Resisting the urge to poke it with the butt of his fork, he instead settled for reading the information on it.

_346 Billings Street_

Sam finished his salad and coffee and left the diner soon after, taking the napkin with him.

It was four fourteen, and the hunter was outside of a quaint little house on a nondescript road just on the edge of the small town. He really shouldn't have been there at all, the longer he put off going to the factory, the colder his father's trail got. At first, Sam was not going to come at all. He had even thrown away the little napkin, only to fish it out again two minutes later. Biting the inside of his lip, he slammed the door to the Impala, the car shifting to the right a little bit in protest.

He shouldn't be here.

He needed to find John.

But, on the other hand, Gabe was the first person who actually genuinely seemed to care about his problems, even with the little information he had given the guy. Sam couldn't exactly just ignore that.

So, here he was.

The hunter glanced at the car. Nothing was keeping him here; he could still leave if he wanted to. The machine sat on the side of the street, looking innocent enough. It was still after so long of running down back roads and through woods, taking the Winchester where he needed to go; travelling from one job to the next. Sam found its stillness eerie.

Letting out a small breath, he crossed the street and approached 346 Billings street.

The door was an obnoxious yellow, but Sam thought that suited Gabe; a cheery door for a cheery person. The problem was that Sam just couldn't seem to bring himself to knock on the door. He was so absorbed in his own little world that he completely missed the figure standing in the window.

Eventually, after two minutes of internal war, he turned and headed back to the Impala. He needed to find John, after all.

Inside the house, Gabe punched a wall. That Winchester had been much harder to find than he had originally thought. He and that damn father of his always had a knack for avoiding people. It was like enticing a wounded animal into his house with sugar cubes, he had to do this right, or Sam would run away. Since he had had Sam in his clutches, he thought that _maybe _this whole mess was going to blow over. Now he was back to square one, and this time, he was angry. But, it wasn't Sam, or even John that pissed him off. No, it was that older _brother_ of his. Dean had to just go and fuck everything up. The worst part was that Dean didn't even know what he _did_. Gabriel knew he _still_ didn't. The destiny of the Earth had been thrown out of whack with one stupid, teenager's mistake. The older Winchester brother chose his own happiness over the safety of his little brother.

Sure, Gabriel hadn't really minded all that much at first. He hadn't seen the effects of Dean's decision first hand. He had believed that for ten years, Sam was still the annoying little boy that had travelled the country under Dean's figurative wing. If anything annoyed the Archangel, it was when people fucked up other people's lives. Dean threw Sam to the dogs, and John did the rest.

John took the sweet, innocent, little twelve-year-old Sam and turned him into a weapon, and _that_ pissed the trickster off.

Then, there were the little fact that the apocalypse was momentarily thrown off, but it's not like _he _of all people cared about that.

…

Outside, Sam revved up the Impala and coasted off down the road, going southwards once again. For some reason, his insides were crawling with guilt. Maybe he should have knocked on the door.

_I'm being an idiot, it's not that big of a deal, _he thought to himself wryly. _I'm sure he didn't even really care._

Suddenly, Sam's phone rang. It was all he could do not to let the car come to a squealing stop. Quickly pulled over, he fumbled through his pocket to pull out his cell phone. Just as fast he flipped it open, and brought it up to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Sam, hey it's Haley."

"Oh," he deflated, "hey Haley. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, no it's perfect!"

"What happened?"

"A man found my brother!"

"A man?" asked Sam, suspicious.

"Yeah, that's actually why I'm calling. He's still here and he wanted to talk to you."

"Who is it?"

"He wouldn't tell us his name, but he said he's a friend of yours."

Heart pumping, he told Haley to put the man on the phone. With a quiet "hold on" and the sound of fabric rustling, Haley handed her phone to the stranger.

"Sam?"

"Dad?"

"I'm glad you're there," John started, all business. "We need to talk. You can't come looking for me."

"What? Why? What's going on? Why did you leave?"

"I'm tracking the thing that killed your mother, Sam."

The younger hunter was silent. John sighed and continued his story.

"I had to leave because I don't want you getting hurt."

"I'm a good hunter," Sam croaked. There was no way the Winchester would let another member of his family leave without having a say in it first. "You said it yourself; I'm almost as good as you are."

"_Almost _doesn't cut it."

"Don't look for me, Sam. Keep hunting. You'll do fine without me. Have you made it to the coordinates yet?"

"I was on my way just when you called."

"Good."

"Did you _want_ to leave?" he asked in a small voice.

John was quiet for a moment. "Sam-"

"Is it because of Dean?" the younger hunter demanded.

"_Don't you speak to me about_-"

"I can be a better son," Sam said, "I can be a better hunter than I was a brother."

"I have to go. Good luck."

The line went dead, and the Winchester's heart clenched. With an angry snort, Sam took all the emotions that he wore on his arm like a sleeve, and shoved them somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Then, he hit the gas pedal and rocketed down the road like a black bullet.

He would show John that he was a good hunter. He would prove that he was a _better _hunter than John _ever _was. He'll show him.

Sam ended up nearly halving the time it took to get to the abandoned shoe factory, though it was already seven at night when he finally did show up; and he hadn't slept since the night before yesterday. Sam weighed the pros and cons of blazing into the factory right now, but eventually, the reasonable part of his mind told the other half to shut the fuck up. He may be suicidal, but he wasn't suicidal enough to charge into some monster's lair without sleep and research.

Finding the motel that he and John stayed at when they were last there, Sam checked in. Receiving his key, he stumbled in through the door, vaguely registering that it was even the same _room _that he had rented the previous time, and passed out on the rickety bed.

The next thing the Winchester registered was someone knocking on his motel door. Groggily, he pushed himself to his feet and rubbed one eye, the other hand pushing his bangs out of his face. Quickly, he pulled on a new shirt and answered the door.

"Hello, Agent Barton?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Hi. Sorry, I just woke up. These have been a long few days for me."

"I can see that. I'm Mayor Winchel, in case you've forgotten," the woman smiled at him. She was a foot shorter than he was, with long brown hair and an "in charge" aura about her. He offered her a thankful smile in return.

"Anything I can do for you?" Sam asked, suppressing a yawn.

"Oh, actually no. Small town, news travels fast. I heard that you were back in town and I was wondering if there was a problem…"

"Nothing yet. I got a tip that there may be an issue. Has anything strange happened lately?"

The mayor frowned. "Nope, sorry… Nothing comes to mind. Listen, if you need anything, don't hesitate to give me a call."

"I will thank you."

With that, the woman turned and rounded the corner of the building. Sam sighed, closing the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Damn Demons

…

The town's newspaper didn't hold anything interesting. No murders, disappearances… nothing unusual at all. So why would John send him here? Typically the two of them stayed away from places they had been before, so obviously it was important.

The last case in this town had been a particularly malicious spirit going by the name Luke Lauson. The Winchester son and father quickly found out that Luke had strangled his wife and two sons in their sleep over a petty argument the night before. He had a long history of being abusive, so the pair of hunters had taken a particular liking to burning his bones.

That was, until they found out that old Luke wasn't hanging onto his bones. It was something else.

Slipping his old watch into Sam's pocket, he followed the hunter's back to the motel and waited until they fell asleep. Then, the spirit attacked, throwing John and Sam against a wall and holding them there with Sam's bed that he had then thrown against them. It was only luck that the younger hunter had a bad feeling about tonight and had put a sawed-off rifle, loaded with rock salt, under his pillow.

Quickly nailing Luke with the salt, the spirit had vanished. John knew immediately what was going on and ordered Sam to check all his pockets while he checked his own. The younger Winchester found the watch, and John had burned it while his son kept watch for the spirit's return.

They left town quickly afterwards, leaving all the town's residents wondering what the heck happened.

Deciding that he wasn't going to get anywhere with looking through the town's newspapers, he opted instead to ask around the local businesses. If he remembered correctly, the closest bar to the motel was a dingy little joint just down the road. Instead of taking the Impala, Sam began to walk towards the club.

The inside wasn't crowded, just a few regulars mingling with their usual crowd. As soon as the Winchester walked in, the building went silent.

"Hey there, haven't seen you around. Lost?" The bartender asked after a few awkward moments. When he spoke up the chatter began anew.

"Uh, no," Sam said, sitting down at the bar.

"It's just; we don't get any visitors during this time of day. If we get any newbies, it's around midnight," the bartender explained.

"I see."

"Want to order anything?"

"Just a beer would be nice."

The bartender nodded and headed towards the opposite side of the bar, rummaging through shelves of alcoholic beverages.

Suddenly, a man sat down next to him. "Hello. Haven't seen you around."

"New in town," Sam offered off-handedly. "I'll be moving on soon."

"You're not here for that damn factory outside of town are you?"

"Factory? Why, anything weird about it?"

The man chuckled. "Weird? Yeah, that place is real weird."

"How so?"

The man laughed again. "It's literally our only tourist attraction. They say the place is haunted, people who go in there don't come out the same."

"What do you mean?"

The man gave him a look. "You're not going to go snooping around that trash heap, are you?"

"No, no of course not. I'm just curious. It's not every day you come across a haunted factory."

He shrugged, "Well, you're asking for it. There is a little shop two streets over that sells a bunch of hoodoo shit. Nobody really takes it seriously, but it gives me the creeps. S'called Stella Matu Gifts. The owner there knows a lot about that place."

"Thanks…"

"Lance."

"Thanks Lance. I'm Sam, by the way."

"No problem, Sam," Lance said, getting up and returning to wherever he had come from.

The bartender returned. "Wow, Lance was talking to you? He's not really one of the social sort."

Sam frowned. "Does he come here a lot?"

"Yeah, he comes almost every day. Not that he ever talks to anybody. Usually he just orders something and goes to sit in the corner for a half an hour."

"Hmm," Sam grunted, taking a sip of his beer.

"He makes me uncomfortable, honestly. I'd kick him out but I don't think the police would take kindly to me throwing out a man on the grounds of "making my hair stand on end"."

"Does he live in town?"

"I don't think so, he always leaves after dark. I think he heads towards Alexander a few miles back up Chester Street, but it's hard to be sure."

"That's odd. What does he do in town all day?"

"Dunno. Pretty much vanishes. Oops, my shift is over. Have a good time in town."

"Thanks, I'll try," Sam said, and then the Bartender disappeared behind a door, probably to wait for the next employee to take over.

Sam downed the rest of his drink and exited the bar, heading for the shop that Lance had mentioned. Luckily it was a short, uneventful walk, and the hunter found himself standing outside of a dark, little shop labeled Stella Matu Gifts. It looked like it was a store straight out of Harry Potter's Nocturn Alley. The one window was boarded over, and the sign above the door was hanging by one hinge. The walls were a sickly green color, and the door was a darker shade of the former.

Sam couldn't honestly say that he wasn't nervous, but he went in anyways.

The air conditioning blasted him as he stepping into the dimly lit room. The smell hit him like a baseball bat to the face; the scent of rotting eggs was poorly masked by about sixty candles throughout the room.

"Can I help you?"

A woman in her late twenties was at the counter. She was wearing a grey tank top showing off her tattoos, which seemed to consist of mostly… suns with pentagrams in the middle? He was starting to think he shouldn't have come at all.

"Uh, hello," Sam began awkwardly, "I was told that you know a lot about the old shoe factory outside of town?"

"Oh, that." The girl said, waving a hand in its general vicinity.

"Yeah, do you?"

"I do."

"I was wondering if you could tell me anything you can about that place."

"Look, maybe I'm not the right person to be talking-"

"A man named Lance sent me, does that name mean anything to you?"

"Lance? He stops by here sometimes. You're real special if he talked to you."

"So I've been told."

The girl paused, examining Sam. "You're sure you want me to tell you about this? Most people think I'm crazy. Hell, maybe I am."

"Trust me, I know crazy," Sam chuckled.

The girl frowned at the Winchester, considering him. Seemingly happy with what she found, she pointed towards an old chair by the wall. "You might want to sit down."

"I'm fine standing."

"Suit yourself. I'm Delphine by the way. Who are you?"

"Sam Barton."

"Barton… doesn't suit you. Hey, there were some FBI agents in town a few years back… I think one of them went by the name Barton. Is that you?"

Sam winced. "Uh… yeah. But I swear I'm not here on duty."

Delphine seemed to have accepted his statement. "If you say so. Anyways… the factory. It was pretty normal for a while… I mean, as normal as something like that can get. But then, a few months ago the people who went in there came out entirely different. Not how they acted, mind you, but they just seemed so… _robotic._ Like they were actors playing a part; and not very good actors at that. So, I looked into it. I'd heard stuff from people passing through about… possession."

"Possession?" Sam asked, becoming more interested.

"I know, you probably think I'm crazy-"

"I don't think you're crazy."

She looked surprised. "You don't? That's a first."

"Like I said, I know crazy; and nothing you've told me so far even comes close to what I've seen."

"Wow, insane life your living."

Sam smiled ruefully, "Yep. Though, I'd like to hear the rest."

"Oh, right. Sorry. So… possession. I did some digging, and ever since that incident with the psychopath who killed all those people…well, it wasn't a psychopath, was it?"

"You mean, when my partner and I were here?"

"Yeah."

Sam bit the inside of his mouth, and then shook his head no.

"I figured. If my facts are straight, that bed was bolted to the floor; I doubt anyone could have moved it."

The Winchester shook his head no again.

"What was it then? I have my theories, but I want to know what really happened."

Sam sighed, weighing the pros and cons of telling the girl. Deciding to spill the beans, he began with the basics. "It was a vengeful spirit. He was called Luke Lauson. Twenty or so years ago, Luke strangled his wife and kids while they slept, then he killed himself. Bad people like him get left behind in this life, so to speak, and then they go mad. You can only get rid of them by either salting and burning their bones, or sometimes they hang on to a favorite possession of theirs. You salt and burn that too. That usually gets rid of the problem."

Delphine was wide-eyed. "I thought, maybe, just a ghost… but never to that extent," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry," the hunter said awkwardly. That seemed to have snapped the girl out of her stupor.

"Yeah, boo-hoo. Back to the story. I'd heard about ghosts possessing people, but it just didn't fit the criteria for what's happening here. So I dug deeper. I found some information on demons; like, from the Bible and whatnot."

"Demons?" The Winchester said, surprised.

"Demons. They take over a human that isn't protected by charms or tattoos like these," Delphine motioned to the little black suns dotting her arms, "and ride them around like a car. They leave behind a sulfuric smell, and they can be exorcized by a choice selection of Latin incantations."

"You seem to know a lot about this."

"Well, I'm nothing if not thorough."

"What incantations?"

"I have a book of them, but it costs twenty bucks. They're over there in the bookshelf. I also do these tattoos if you care."

"Thanks, I might actually do just that," Sam said, walking over to pick out the book she had mentioned. He returned to the counter, and she rung him up.

"Actually, I'll do the pentagram for free, since you heard me out and don't think I'm crazy."

The hunter gave her a genuine smile. Then it struck him. "Why does it smell like eggs in here?"

"I don't know," she admitted, handing him the book with the receipt. "It started stinking about a month ago, and I've called every specialist from here to high Heaven. Nobody can find anything."

"I can take a look around some time, if I get the chance."

"Would you? Thank you! I wouldn't want any demons roaming around my store without my say so. Now; to tattoo, or not to tattoo?"

"I'll do it."

Delphine clapped her hands together excitedly. "Fantastic. Come and sit down in this room over here while I get ready. I swear this seat isn't as gross as that one." She bounced away to gather her supplies from one of the dusty cabinets somewhere nearby. It left the man some time alone to reflect on her store. Now that he was actually _looking_, it was reasonably well-maintained. Every area possible to reach was spotless, but there was so much merchandise that there really wasn't a lot she could actually _clean_. The Winchester shook his head slightly in acceptance, and then sat himself down on the much tidier chair than the one in the main room.

The girl came back in, laden with the tattooing supplies. Brandishing the needle, she smiled at him. "Have you gotten a tattoo before?"

"No."

"It'll hurt," Delphine warned.

"Don't worry. I have a high pain tolerance."

"I see. Where do you want it, and how big do you want it?"

Sam took off his shirt, explaining that he wanted it above his heart. Delphine didn't seem fazed by his naked torso, for which he was grateful. He then explained that he wanted it to be about the size of the bottom of a water bottle. The girl shook her head in understanding, and then went to work.

"Why are you working here?" Sam asked about a quarter of the way through.

"It was my mom's shop. She was a real nut, lemme tell you."

Sam nodded, and fell silent in thought.

About half way through, the Winchester asked another question. "What does stella matu mean?"

"Like I said, my mom was a nut," Delphine said. Sam left it at that.

A long while later, Delphine finished. Sam's skin stung fiercely, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

"Are you sure you don't want me to pay? Those things usually cost a lot of money."

"It's fine, trust me. I've got more money than I need. Here is the lotion you'll need. Put it on that for a few days and it should stick around. No charge."

"Thanks Delphine. Call me if you need anything, here is my number," Sam said, writing down his personal cell phone number on a scrap of paper that she handed to him without further delay. Waving goodbye, he exited the store and headed back to the motel.

After applying liberal amounts of the lotion to his chest, he pulled his laptop out of his duffle bag and booted it up. Sam threw his jacket and shirt into a plastic bag to be washed later at a Laundromat, because they smelled strongly of sulfur, and frankly; it make the Winchester sick to his stomach. He tied the bag up with the handles and shoved it into the bottom of the bad, piling other clothes on top of it. _That should do for now, _Sam thought vaguely.

Opening the search engine, the hunter searched the internet about demons. The usual sites came up; Wikipedia, a few churches claiming that they could save his soul, and a seemingly unlimited number of crappy angst-y teen-created websites with black color schemes.

Running a hand over his face, he continued on through pages and pages of supposed demon lore. Nothing was conclusive, and most of it was completely made up. Sam was even debating just buying a Bible after the fourth hour had passed with no results. All he had found as of yet was the superstition that demons have black eyes, could possess any human who wasn't warded against them, and they were all at one point, humans.

Flipping the knife open and shut in his hand absently, he closed the laptop and decided to go and get something to eat. There was a family-run restaurant next door that he had been intending to try the last time Sam had been in town, which, for obvious reasons, never ended up happening.

He was just starting to walk down the sidewalk when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, finding Lance staring up at him.

"Hey, Sam. I didn't know you were still in town."

"Oh, yeah. I don't plan on staying too much longer. Is there something you need?"

"Actually, yeah. You seem like a strong guy, right? Well, there are some boxes in my truck that I can't lift myself. Can you help? It's just behind that building over there."

The Winchester considered Lance. Maybe _he _was the thing John sent him here to kill. If so, and Lance was some sort of supernatural being, he had no idea what would kill the man. The entire defense he had on him was his knife. In addition to the former, he had no idea what Lance wanted; maybe to kill the hunter, but maybe he wanted something else?

Discreetly sticking his fist into his pocket and gripping the weapon, he gave an agreeing grunt, motioning to the other man to lead the way. Lance grinned at Sam, before turning and heading towards the location he had mentioned just a little earlier. The Winchester sauntered behind him, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed. He didn't see anything, but that didn't mean there wasn't anyone there.

The truck was black, a Chevy, probably from the eighties. So far the taller man couldn't see any boxes, which only made his hand clench his knife harder.

"Sam," Lance said, turning to face him.

"I don't see any boxes," he replied tonelessly.

"That's because there aren't any. I needed to talk to you, alone. They're watching my every move."

"What do you mean?"

"Did Delphine tell you everything?"

Sam cautiously shook his head yes.

"I know you're a hunter, I've worked a few cases with John a few years back."

"You know John?"

Lance smiled lightly. "He's a great hunter. You couldn't have been in more capable hands."

"Were you going to tell me something?" Sam asked irritably.

"Sorry, I'll be quick. I think you should leave town, leave the factory alone."

"What?" Sam spluttered, "Why?"

"Demons aren't something you want to get involved with if you can avoid it. Mess with one of them; others will follow, wanting to test you."

"Why are you still here then?"

"Because I know how to deal with them. You on the other hand, you just learned they existed today. In fact, I'll bet you're still skeptical."

"John sent me here to take care of it. If he thinks I can do it, then I can do it."

"John sent you? Where is he?"

"It doesn't matter. Tell me how to fight them, and I'll leave as soon as I came."

"I'm not worried about that-"

"Then why are you telling me this?"

"I don't want you to get hurt Sam," Lance sighed.

"When was the last time you saw me?"

"Maybe fifteen years ago… Why?"

"Because I can do _more_ than I could _fifteen_ _years_ ago. Tell me how to kill the demons, and we both walk away from here happy."

"I don't have to tell you anything."

Sam laughed monotonously. "Yes, you do."

Suddenly, the Winchester pushed the other man up against the black truck violently. Placing his weight against Lance to keep him in place, he pulled the weapon out of his jeans and pressed it against the hunter's throat. Lance swallowed painfully, gritting his teeth and swearing softly.

"Tell. Me. What. To. Do."

"Sam-"

"Did I stutter?" Sam snarled, "You've got two minutes to spill everything you know, starting now."

The shorter hunter glared at the Winchester. "You've gotten scary, boy. What happened to you?"

"Like I said, it doesn't matter."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Last Ticket to Freedom

…

Lance was forthcoming with the information on demons, and Sam let the hunter go with a quiet "if you were lying about _anything_, I will find you," and the man scuttled off in his black truck, the engine rumbling as the vehicle veered out of the parking lot. The Winchester tucked his knife back into his pocket and went back to his motel, appetite ruined. As soon as he returned, he switched on his computer and typed all the new information down on a text document before he forgot it again; and then, he made everything Lance told him he'd need. By that time it was already late.

Quickly taking another shower and applying more of the lotion, the Winchester dawned on a grey T-shirt and boxers, before clambering into the rickety bed. It shifted and groaned under his weight, but soon settled into a more comfortable position.

"Goodnight Da-" he began to say, then stopped himself. Biting the inside of his lip, he turned on one side with the feeling like he had been holding his breath underwater and had just run out of air. Smothering his face into the pillow, the hunter exhaled sharply, and closed his eyes.

Sam woke up around seven-thirty the next morning. Groaning as his stiff muscles protested, he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Weak sunlight filtered in through the thin off-white curtains drawn over a slightly cracked window. From somewhere across the room, his laptop hummed like a napping cat; he must have left it on from the night before.

Sighing, the hunter rose to his feet. He crossed the floor and opened the computer, intending to turn it off when he noticed an email. Enlarging the icon, he found it to be from Stanford College. He had almost forgotten about that…

A couple months ago, when John was off, or somewhere else, Sam had been applying to colleges. Well, to be more accurate, _a_ college. He had always wanted to go to Stanford to become a lawyer.

Figuring it was a rejection email, the Winchester skimmed through the document. It took him about halfway through to realize it was an _acceptance letter_! Stanford had accepted him, _and_ had given him a _full ride_!

The hunter stood there for a minute, gawking at his luck. Then it dawned on him. He didn't have to hunt anymore. There was his ticket out, _right there_; quite literally, _one click away_. There was nothing stopping him.

Except.

John had sent him on a mission, and Sam knew his father didn't make him do anything without a purpose. Usually it ended up saving a lot of lives in the process.

In addition, Sam had yet to find John. Even though his father told him not to look for him, Sam will be damned if he doesn't at least _try_. There was little chance he could actually pull off the feat, especially when his dad didn't _want_ to be found, but the hunter had gotten much better at tracking over the years and he felt somewhat confident in his abilities.

Gritting his teeth and staring at the screen, he let his internal war rage on. John didn't make him do anything, and more than anything Sam wanted to prove he was his own person. If he wanted to go to college, there wasn't a damn thing on Earth that could stop him. But, the hunter was painfully aware of just how many lives rode on him when he hunted. If he went to school, there would probably be some sort of monster out there in the dark, which would prey on innocent people. A monster that _he _could have stopped if he hadn't have been so damn selfish.

Feeling sick to his stomach, he exited out of the email and dragged it into his trash. Doing all he could not to slam the lid shut, he pulled on some fresh clothes, and stalked out the door.

Outside the motel, the air was cold and smelled of spilled gasoline. The sky above him was overhanging with dull, grey, lifeless clouds that never seemed to end. They stretched from horizon to horizon, mostly obscuring the sun. The hunter pulled the Impala's keys out of his jeans and unlocked the doors, starting the engine. It hummed to life with a hoarse splutter and Sam dragged himself inside. _Today is the day_, he thought. Today is the day that he stormed the castle.

The factory was only a few minutes out of town. The Impala rode down the main street in town, chugging her way towards city limits. Quickly the scenery changed from old, but well-kept buildings to dusty, dead and deserted. The land was mostly flat, except for a few large beige rocks and boulders strewn about the plains haphazardly.

Soon, a large grey building loomed on the left side of the road. With a grin as warm as Alaska, he turned into the dilapidated parking lot and parked as far away from the factory as he physically could. Getting out and slamming the door behind him, he walked around to the trunk and pulled it open, exposing an arsenal of weapons.

The Winchester remembered everything Lance said to bring. He had made holy water run yesterday night after the encounter with the other man, he and John kept around a crap ton of salt for obvious reasons, and the hunter had grabbed a few iron knives just to be safe. After a thought, Sam returned to the front seat of the car and grabbed the book of exorcisms he had purchased from Delphine the day before. Shoving everything he just grabbed into a small backpack plus a few other odds and ends, he zipped the pack up.

Feeling confident, the Winchester began to make his way towards the towering steel doors that led to the interior of the building. The inside if the building was cool and dark, but it was warmer than outside. Sam's hand found its way to his knife in his pocket. Something didn't seem right here.

Keeping both eyes open, the hunter trudged on. The air was thick with dust, and the small amounts of sunlight streamed through the broken roof. It was hardly enough to see by, let alone search. He pulled a small flashlight and flicked it on. A bright white light shot out from the tip, and Sam began to shine it anywhere he could see. Mountains of plastic-covered machinery dominated the space. The ceiling was at least twenty feet above him. The place smelled vaguely of tar.

_Crash!_

The hunter whirled around to face to noise, the flashlight beam just a split second behind him. It took the Winchester a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he found a small shape running towards him at breakneck speed.

"Meow!"

The cat's head butted up against his leg. The small animal began to purr, rubbing its lithe body against the fabric of his jeans. "Meow!"

"Hey there, what are you doing here?" Sam smiled, lifting the scrawny creature and holding it up to his face. It meowed again, trying to paw at his nose. "Aren't you a friendly cat?"

Suddenly, the animal tensed, its whole body going rigid. Hissing, the cat furiously struggled to get out of the Winchester's grasp. Setting it down, the feline sprinted off in the direction it had come from, tail bobbing as it ran. Sam on the other hand, spun around to face what it had been looking at. Right behind the hunter stood a man, who smiled pleasantly at him. He was slightly shorter than Sam, and had sandy-grey hair.

"Wow, I'd have to say, you were the last person I had expected to see here, Sam," the stranger exclaimed in mock surprise.

"Who are you?" the hunter asked shortly.

"Me? I have a few names."

"Are you a demon?" he demanded.

"Now, let's not revert to name calling." He took a step forward.

"Stay back!" Sam threatened, pulling an iron knife out of his back pocket.

The man looked at the Winchester like he was three and had just shown him one of his drawings he made in art class. "That stick isn't going to do anything to me, so let's just put it away before someone gets hurt."

"I'll put it away when you tell me who you are," Sam said confidently.

The man sighed, flicking two fingers in his general vicinity. The hunter was surprised when his whole body flew backwards and he landed upright with a painful _thud_ against a lumpy pile of machinery. No matter what he did, he couldn't move a muscle.

"I just wanted to have an adult little talk, and then you had to go and start making threats," he sighed, walking up to the bound Winchester. The man kicked away the dropped iron knife.

"How do you know my name?" Sam puffed, trying to stall his possibly inevitable death so he could look for an out.

"You're real special, that's why. You could even say I'm why you're here. Besides, who doesn't know the great Sam Winchester and his big brother?"

"My brother?"

"Dean Winchester, yes; and they said you were _smart_. Where is he?"

"Not here. What's he got to do with any of this?"

The man ignored him. "That's not what I asked," he smiled, twisting his had in mid-air like he was screwing in a light bulb. The Winchester's body erupted into searing hot pain, comparable to being processed through a wood chipper. He clenched his teeth in order not to cry out, but instead, he caught a little bit of the inside of his lip; drawing blood.

The man stopped moving his hand, and the hunter let out a sigh of relief as the pain dissipated. As he did so, a drop of blood flung off of his lip and landed on the floor. The stranger noticed it, and frowned faintly, like he was disappointed. "Sammy, I don't _want_ to hurt you. You're just making this so damn difficult on yourself," he paused, "But… I guess it doesn't make a difference where Dean is. We need to have a talk."

"I'm not telling you anything, so you can go and stick your head up my ass," Sam snarled.

"Oh, no. I know everything you could possibly tell me. I just need you to listen, and then maybe do me a favor."

"Who the _Hell_ do you think you are?"

"Hell… yes. You asked my name, and since I know yours, it's only fair I tell you mine. My name is Azazel. I'm a demon," he said with a smile. Azazel stuck his hand out for Sam to shake, but then smirked wider when Sam just glared at him, still unable to move. He retracted his hand again.

"Of course, it's just pure luck that I'm the first demon you officially meet. I just happened to be walking through this part of the factory when I noticed you sneaking around. You're quite lucky, really. Not many people even get to _speak_ with me before they're dead."

Sam struggled a little harder.

"I suppose that's enough of the small talk. Let's get down to the really important topics. First off, I think we'll start with you."

"Shut the fuck up," the Winchester roared.

"Temper," Azazel chastised. "Like I said, you're special. In fact, I consider you my actual child; you're my blood, after all. Not that kind of blood," the demon exhaled, noticing the hunter's death-glare. "_My_ blood."

"You demons and you god-awful kinks," Someone snorted from in the dark to Sam's left.

"Who are you?" Azazel said, looking towards the source of the voice, tensing visibly.

"Does it matter? You'll be dead in a few seconds anyways.

Suddenly, the demon's eyes grew wide, and he took a step back. "You're-"

"Dead? _Obviously_ not."

"There are more demons here, you can't fight them all."

"Actually," the man in the shadows snorted, "I already did. This whole place is empty except for you, me and that poor moose you tied to a shoelace machine. I'll give you to the count of three to get as far away from here as you can."

Azazel turned to Sam. "It looks like we're going to have to pick this up later."

"One."

"And you," the demon said, turning towards the dark, "We'll be looking for you."

"_Two_."

Azazel disappeared, and the force holding the Winchester going with him. The hunter slumped to the floor almost immediately. He spend a few second on the dusty floor just _breathing_. That had been too close for comfort.

"You okay Samsquatch?"

He had almost forgotten about the man, still hidden in the shadows.

"Who are you?"

The man chuckled, and Sam could barely make out his white teeth. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," the Winchester stressed, turning his body –which was still on the floor- towards his rescuer. "You saved my life. I don't just _forget_ about stuff like that, especially six seconds later."

"Hmm, I can see," the man hummed. "Well, I'm glad you're okay. Though, I need to go. Think you can manage from here?"

That voice… Sam could have sworn that he knew it from somewhere. Brushing off the notion, Sam nodded his head slightly in assurance of the last question.

"Good. I'll be going then," he said, and, before the hunter could get another word in edgewise; his rescuer disappeared with an audible snap, leaving the Winchester dumbfounded.

Groaning, he stumbled to his feet and picked up the items he had dropped not too long ago. What just happened? Even though he had just met the demon, he was pretty sure –going by the way he acted- Azazel was one of the more powerful demons in existence. With the hunter's luck, they would meet again.

But then, there was that man. Was he a demon too? If he was, then he was much more powerful than Azazel; and that couldn't be good news. But he hadn't hurt Sam, just saved him from the demon, and then disappeared soon after. Desperately, he wanted to know their motives. What was their end game?

Running a hand over his face, he headed out of the factory and into the daylight. The sun had finally peeked through the overhanging clouds. He could hear birds out in the deserted scrublands. Wearily, the hunter unlocked the Impala and tossed the dirty backpack carelessly onto the passenger's seat. Starting the car, he shut the door behind him and took off down the road, back towards town.

The ride back to the motel seemed to take much less time than it had leaving. Soon, he was unlocking the door to his room and stepping inside, dragging his backpack behind him.

The room was just as he had left it. The laptop was still on, humming softly as it blew hot air out from the vents on its side. Frowning, Sam slunk inside, shitting the wooden door behind him and dropping his equipment near the wall. Crossing the room, the Winchester shut the computer and then headed for the bathroom, intending to take a _very _long shower.

Doing his best to clear his mind, Sam cleaned himself off as best as he could without stirring his sore muscles too much, before getting out and plopping himself down on the shitty motel bed. It creaked under his weight before settling down again. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was only six o'clock. Sighing, Sam flopped backwards, the bed protesting again from under him.

Staring at the off-white ceiling, the Winchester thought. Why exactly had his father sent him here? There wasn't anything to gain; except maybe a few more enemies. Was it some kind of a test? He bit the inside of his cheek. Why exactly had Azazel asked about his brother? Didn't he know that Dean and Sam hadn't seen each other in a long time? There were too many questions and not enough answers.

Groaning in despair, Sam turned and smothered his head into his pillow. If only John could see him now.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: See You On the Road

…

The months rolled on as Sam travelled. November bled life into December; December died and the late January of 2006 arrived without too much fanfare. Everything went on as it should have, with Sam attempting to track his father down, some fruitful hunts, and a few nightmares thrown in here and there. Each month that passed, he was farther and farther from finding John. There were a couple times that the hunter had come close to giving up. But what is a Winchester without a purpose? So he kept looking.

Sam was in Montana. The snow was coming down too fast – everything was white. There was so much snow it was almost idiotic. There were reports coming in almost every five minutes, another crash, and another fatality. Sam eventually had had enough and simply switched off his police radio. Instead he switched on the shitty tube television in his current motel. Apparently, yet another storm was supposed to hit the area within the day. The hunter figured he should probably move on before the area was frozen solid and he would have to wait for everything to thaw again before he moved on.

In all actuality, it may have been a good idea to wait a day or two for the storm to pass that he was currently in; but the hunter had been feeling reckless. He had lived to regret it, of course, because here he was; stranded out somewhere along the back roads of Montana, trying to pry the Impala out of a particularly deep patch of snow and ice. There had been an old crowbar underneath the front seat of the car, which he was now using to levitate the tires off the ground.

The radio faded in and out from the background; going from static to some odd country song that he had never heard before. It was coupled by the wind that howled down from the mountains, making the hunter wish that he was wearing more than just a utility jacket and a pair of threadbare brown leather gloves.

The Winchester grunted in exertion, trying his hardest to release the Impala from the pile of snow. He pushed the hunk of metal forward as far as he could, then stopping when it was caught again, just to shove the metal rod under the tires again and repeat the process over again.

"Need a little help?" A feminine voice asked from behind him.

Sam jumped violently, spinning around and unconsciously reaching for the switch knife at his waist. A short girl with short, near-white hair sat in a white pick-up truck, wrapped in a puffy grey coat. She considered Sam with a smile that seemed… too _sharp_. His brushed off his feelings of uneasiness.

The hunter let out a breath and tried to return her smile, to which he was only moderately successful. "Yeah. That'd be great."

The girl parked her truck where it was, then slipped out to confront him. "Want me to give it some gas?" She asked, motioning towards the driver's seat with her thumb. The Winchester nodded.

"Cool," the girl mused, swinging open the door to the Impala and setting herself gracefully onto the leather seat. She turned the keys that Sam had left in the dashboard, letting the car roar to life. Soon the wheels were spinning madly and the hunter was shoving the trunk with all his might. She slid forward with a lurch, finally free of the deep ice and snow that it had been stuck in for all too long.

"Is it out?" The girl called, sticking her head out the open window.

"Yeah, it is. Thanks for doing this for me, even though I don't know you."

She smirked, "No problem. What's your name?"

"Sam."

"That's a nice name, Sam. I'm Meg. Meg Masterson" Meg stepped out of his car to confront the taller man, sticking out a gloved hand. He took it and shook, smiling warmly at her.

"Would you mind if I tailed you into town?" She asked, staring at Sam so hard he almost found it unnerving. "I don't want to get caught in a bank myself."

"Sure, sure. Sounds fine to me."

"Great," Meg said, already turning to climb back into her white truck. The Winchester, in turn, sighed softly before heading back to the wheel. Soon the duo was cruising down the snow-slicked roads and towards the nearest city. Eventually, the storm began to let up. By the time the hunter pulled into Alexander Plateau, the sleet had been reduced to mere glitter; which shined in the yellow light of the dark buildings around them. Sam pulled into the parking lot of a shabby motel, and then turned around to spot Meg, still driving behind him. She pulled her truck up next to the Impala and parked it. It let out one final, shuddering gasp of fumes before shutting off completely.

Not knowing what exactly to expect, Sam climbed out of the Impala slowly, shouldering his black backpack and duffle bag with care. Out of the side of his eye, he noticed Meg pulling out a duffle bag of her own. Sam reached up to scratch the back of his neck before slamming the door closed and locking it.

Meg Masterson gave the Winchester a faint smile. "Well, I suppose this is it then," she told him.

Sam frowned, confused. "Aren't you going to spend the night in there?" He asked, jabbing a thumb towards the dilapidated building to his right.

"No. I need to pick up a few things around town. There aren't many places to park."

"I see."

A smirk crossed the girl's face. "Don't cry. It's not the end of the world…"

She trailed off. The hunter gave her a quizzical look but she only shrugged. "It was a joke. Anyways, I probably won't be seeing you," and, with that; she walked off into the gloom of the road.

Feeling infinitely uncomfortable, the Winchester made his way inside the motel. The lighting was substandard at best; every couple of seconds, the dusty fixtures would flicker audibly, before returning to their former positions. After passing a gangly teenager running the desk and receiving his key, Sam headed into the murky hallways.

Nearly choking on the mothball scent of the carpet, the Winchester bolted into his room. Slamming the door behind him, he took a deep breath of the musky air; relishing the mothball free smell. The room itself was worn, but well enough kept to make Sam feel more comfortable. Setting down the backpack and grey duffle on the floor, Sam pulled out his laptop. Plugging the cord into the yellow outlet on the wall, the hunter plopped himself down on the threadbare bed, making the springs squeal in protest. Opening the lid, he booted it up.

A few minutes later, after the machine had warmed up and was fully functioning, Sam clicked on the internet icon. Mousing over the search bar, he began to type.

_Dean Winchester_

Under one-hundred results popped up. He clicked on the first link. It led to a school website depicting a wrestling match from roughly ten and a half years prior to today.

"_The Lebanon Kansas wrestling team; Victor Huel, Ben Thompson, William Villas, Xander Villas, Dean Winchester, and Coulson Paul…"_

The internet article went on to explain how the team of boys went on to become state runner-ups for the Kansas wresting tournament. Under the text, a picture of the team was posted. All the boys were smiling, each jostling one another to be closest to the small silver trophy in the middle. There was only one boy who had actually gotten his hands on the thing, which was none other than his brother, Dean Winchester. Dean looked exactly as Sam had remembered him. The same impeccable hair, the same toothy grin, and the same kind smile. The hunter caught himself before he smiled back at the still life on his laptop screen. Quickly, he went back to the search results screen.

The second result was from the same school website, but this time entailing about the school prom just a few weeks after. There were many pictures, and the Winchester ended up scrolling through nearly all of them until he finally came across a grainy photograph of Dean and some girl dancing in the background; obviously and completely engrossed in one another. Sam felt his heart clench with both happiness for Dean, and a burning jealousy. He couldn't get off the pace fast enough.

The next few links held little to no information concerning his brother. A one-time band he had joined, only to quit after one gig. There was a picture of a newspaper clipping depicting a blurry picture of an older Dean, who was absolutely beaming at the camera. He was holding up a nest of baby birds after having caught them from falling to the ground in a low-hanging branch of a tree; only to be seen in the act by a friendly neighbor. Sam dug up a few documents on his brother's volunteer hours at a local humane society.

After skimming through results for roughly an hour, the Winchester came across a rather official looking website, titled "A Second Chance". Following the link, it brought him to a page littered with photos of smiling, impoverished people as they hugged or thanked an assortment of boys; ranging from eight year-olds and younger to twenty year-old men. Sam searched for an explanation, finding one at the bottom of the page.

_A Second Chance is a program dedicated to helping the poor or disadvantaged who need help in urban areas to rural areas in Kansas and parts of Oklahoma. Our creator, Dean Winchester, has been building upon A Second Chance's foundations since January of 1999. A Second Chance has already helped over six thousand people get back on their feet and into well-paying jobs as of October 2005. Call a local helpline if you are in need of assistance, and we can give you your much needed second chance._

Sam felt nothing for the next few moments. He wasn't angry. He wasn't happy. He wasn't sad. He was simply nothing. For about a minute, the Winchester just sat there, staring at the screen of his laptop. Then, he slid towards resentment.

The hunter had wondered what his brother had been doing for the ten plus years he had been away. Now he knew, and there was no real reason he shouldn't be grateful that Dean had gotten out of the life unscathed. But, no matter how much he tried not to, he just couldn't shake off the fire building in the pit of his stomach. Gritting his teeth slightly, he decided that a good long rest was in order. Quickly changing from his day clothes to only a light T-shirt and a pair of clean boxers, he slammed down on the lumpy spring mattress and saddled off into sleep.

_A man is in a car. He is pulling into his garage. Once the car is fully inside, the garage door slams shut behind him. Something is wrong. He did not shut the door and there is no one else around. Suddenly, the doors lock. Panic whells up inside of the man; inside of Sam Winchester._

_The car is still on. It is still pumping carbon dioxide into the small space. The panic is increasing. The man tries to shut the car off but it doesn't work._

_Panic translates into fear._

_The gas wafts into the vehicle, slowly choking the man. A blind, maniac terror now holds the man in its icy claws. Fumes keep filling the car. Sam is feels this man's horror as the doors fail to open. HE screams for help but no one is coming._

_The man is dying. He vainly scrabbles at the smooth glass windows. He gasps for air, eyes bulging. One hand goes to his throat as if trying to push oxygen into his own windpipe himself. The man caves in on himself, going limp and sluggishly leaning forward against the steering wheel._

_The man is dead_

The Winchester jolts out of the bed with a strangled cry. He gulps for the stale motel air like a drowning man clings to driftwood. The panic from his dream makes his heart pound, makes his head ache, makes his skin crawl. The dream had been too vivid, to lifelike.

Sam puts his sheet-wrinkled hand against his throat absently before stumbling out of the poor excuse for a bed. A quick glance to the bedside alarm clock tells him it's one thirty-two in the morning. He goes to his duffle bag against the wall and digs out a half-ripped piece of paper and a mostly empty Bic pen. He returns to the bed, leans over onto the nightstand and begins to record everything he remembers about the dream.

By the time he had finished, Sam was alert and ready to take on a pack of werewolves; or, in this case, drive across the country to Oklahoma. Quickly throwing together all of his belongings (not that there was a lot), the hunter was out the door and on the road.

The Impala hummed around him, both comforting the Winchester and occasionally giving him small jolts of panic when it jounced over a pothole or blew gaseous fumes in his general vicinity. Twice he nearly crashed the poor car into a tree. But, even still, he kept going. Absolutely nothing was more dangerous or terrifying than a Winchester with a mission.

Sam drove through the entire day. Fatigued as he was, the hunter would not stop. But, eventually even he had to admit that driving for a day and a half strait wasn't healthy – even for a hunter. That was saying something, considering Sam got an average of three hours of sleep on a lucky night. That wasn't counting the time spent passed out drunk on the motel couch.

It was getting dark, and the hunter was driving down a deserted dirt road somewhere on the edge of Nebraska. It was drizzling cold rain onto the windshield, making it nearly impossible to see more than fifteen feet in front of his own nose. He began to see things, like lights in the distance.

Wait… Those _were_ lights in the distance. Sleepily, Sam revved up the engine and coasted a bit faster down the sloppy road.

_Harvelle's Roadhouse_ the beaming sign on the roof read. Yawning, the Winchester pulled up next to a beat up red Chevy truck. Switching off the overused engine, he stumbled out of the driver's seat and into the roadhouse.

There were only a few people inside; mostly sitting alone with as much alcohol as they were allowed. Many had guns out and were polishing the handles, or were just fiddling around with them to pass the time. The hunter froze. Where the heck was he?

"What can I get for you?" A woman, probably in her late forties, asked.

"Uh, where exactly am I?"

The woman swore under her breath, so softly Sam wasn't sure he had heard it. "Those guys over there work for a circus a few miles up the road."

Sam scrunched up his face and considered her. She seemed to be telling the truth, but she may just be a damn good liar.

"Anything I can get for you?" She prompted.

"A… room would be nice if you could spare one."

"We have a few out back if you have the money."

Sam inclined his head and fished out the false credit card from his pocket and handed it to her without another word. She took it from him and motioned him up to the counter.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" the woman asked.

"Travelling to Oklahoma on a trip."

"Oklahoma? That's pretty far from here. Where did you start from?"

"Nowhere in particular."

The woman didn't seem to be listening. She was frowning at her computer screen. "We don't take fake information… Jose Bulivard?"

Sam felt a little pink rise to his cheeks. He couldn't remember why he had thought calling himself Jose was a good idea in the least. "I- I don't underst-"

"Cut the crap. We get quite a few scammers coming through here. I know a false credit card when I see one."

The Winchester blanched. "I am sorry. I'll just be goi-" he yawened loudly, even though he tried his best to hold it back, "going now."

He turned and headed towards the door.

Suddenly, a young blonde girl burst into the room. "Mom! There's a black Impala sitting in the parking lot!"

The woman looked startled. Sam paused by the door, watching the events unfold before him.

"Are you sure? It's pretty damn dark outside."

"Mom, I'm sure. Have you seen him?"

A couple men in the background grumbled to themselves. Most of them continued as they had and sipped on their beers in silence. Despite their silence, many of them seemed interested. Sam would have been suspicious at the behavior if he hadn't had been feeling oddly detached. Another yawn racked through his body.

"He's not here. I doubt that he'd come back anyways." The woman turned to address the crowd. "Anybody here drive that black Impala outside?"

None of them answered.

"That one's mine," Sam piped up quietly.

Both the blonde girl and the woman turned on him. "It is?"

"Yeah. Why?" He asked, feeling the need to sit down, but at the same time he really didn't want to lose his height advantage.

"Nothing," the woman quipped and turned back to whatever work she had been doing before Sam had entered the bar.

The blonde haired girl approached him. "You know any Johns?"

The hunter blinked. "Yeah, I do."

"John Winchester?" She asked.

Sam blinked again. Was this for real? "Why?" He said, harsher than he'd meant to.

The girl looked surprised, like she hadn't been expecting that answer; which she probably hadn't. "He sort of owes my mom. Big time. She's never told my why so please don't ask me."

"John Winchester is my dad," the Winchester told her slowly and unsurely.

The woman at the bar turned whipped around and seemed to really consider Sam for the first time since he had walked in.

"Mother of god," she said to herself.

"I'm sorry?"

"Sam Winchester?" She asked.

This was surreal. The world was spinning around him. He could hardly feel his feet. In fact, he was swaying back and forth dangerously.

_Probably should have gotten some more sleep_, Sam thought sluggishly as he passed out from sheer exhaustion.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Vacancy

…

Sam awoke with a start and a ham sandwich. The submarine seemed innocent enough – and the pink floral plate it was sitting on really didn't seem suspicious, so his hand shot out from underneath a thick quilt and grabbed it from the nightstand faster than he'd ever moved in his life; and Sam wolfed it down within the minute.

When the food had finally disappeared, Sam began to wonder where he was. First, he noticed the walls. The room was worn; it had a warm brown wallpaper, a window filtering in soft, morning light; a few, thick, used quilts on top of the bed; and a pale yellow, stuffed armchair with a man sleeping on top.

The Winchester started at the sight. He was scrawny to say the least; the man wore a threadbare jacket and T-shirt bearing the logo to some long-forgotten band name. The hunter looked at the sleeping form for a few more seconds before noticing the mullet. He stifled an incredulous snort.

Where the hell was he?

Getting out of the bed without waking his 'companion' was no easy task. The bed creaked and groaned like a quivering, old horse before finally silencing as Sam managed to remove himself from it. He was still in his clothing from the day before, dirt and all. The Winchester looked around for a weapon. Unfortunately, there was nothing at all. He checked the drawers in the nightstand. He only found a paper clip and an old eraser. Frowning, Sam stuffed the paper clip in his pocket. He might need it later.

The hunter checked under the bed next, which was immaculately clean. Sam bit back a groan before hoisting himself to his feet. Taking one last look at the sleeping man, the Winchester slipped out the door to his right.

He found himself in a hallway, decked out in the same brown wallpaper as the previous room. There were dusty pictures hung on the walls; each displaying a different person. Some were smiling; some held up various weapons, some were stoic and Sam knew immediately that they had seen terrible things. Most of the portraits were labeled with a nametag.

_Gordon Walker_ read a nametag under a smiling man. He was holding up a wickedly curved sickle. The hunter examined the photo further. Upon closer inspection, the smile did not really light up the rest of his face. It was as if someone had simply pasted it onto the picture with crafting glue. Feeling uncomfortable, Sam kept walking.

More names and frames were hung on the walls. _Jake Reilly, Caleb Blacker, Rick Alaban, Shawn Yinsin…_ the list went on. As the hunter neared the end of the hallway, the last few photos caught his eye.

John Winchester stood without a smile on his face, staring into the camera. He wore his old leather jacket and held his typical military posture. His face looked sallow and pale. His left hand was firmly clasp on his brother's shoulder. Dean was young in this picture, and he nearly didn't recognize him.

_John and Dean Winchester_ it read in a neat scrawl of red ink, destroying any doubts Sam may have had. Below the text was crammed a date, in much messier, black-inked handwriting. It must have been added at a later time.

_February 1994._

It had been taken about four months before Dean had left. The Winchester's hand went unconsciously to his pocket where his switchblade was usually kept, but it went limp when he realized that it was no longer there. Instead, he bit the inside of his lip and trudged onwards, towards the metal door at the end of the corridor.

Unsurprisingly, the exit was locked. Feeling satisfied that he had grabbed the paper clip from the night table earlier; he skillfully slipped one metal end into the keyhole and began to work. Less than a minute later, the doorknob made a quiet _click_ and unlocked. The hunter took it in one hand and let the door swing out slowly. He peered around the corner to check his surroundings.

The room it led to was the same bar he had been in the night before. Now that he was fully awake, he examined it in full.

The place was obviously old, but it was extremely well-kept. Tables occupied half of the room; their chairs placed upside-down on the surface. Alcohol shelves and coolers lined the other side. A large bar took up the rest of the space. It smelled faintly of lemons and cleaning agents. The bar was empty.

Cautiously, Sam snuck out of the hallway. He figured that there should be an office somewhere around here where the woman probably had stashed his stuff. He doubted she had called the police on him at this point because a. he currently wasn't in their custody and b. everybody that was drinking here the night before had a gun on them. The hunter resisted a snort. Of all the places he could have passed out, it just happened to be this place. Sam decided to pin it on the famous Winchester Luck.

Of course, not a moment later, his luck ran out. The Winchester felt a cool barrel of a rifle press into the small of his back.

"Don't move boy, or I'll blow you off your feet. This thing is loaded and I 'aint afraid to use it," threatened a familiar voice.

"I don't think you'll shoot me," Sam said evenly.

There was the sound of the safety clicking off.

"I stand corrected," he muttered.

"Who the hell are you?" the woman from last night asked.

The hunter huffed out an unamused laugh before suddenly spinning around and grabbing the gun by the barrel and yanking it out of the woman's grip. She swore loudly, trying to grab the weapon from Sam's hand. He utilized his height and pulled it out of her reach.

"What did I _do_ to you?" He hissed. "Why do you have a those pictures?" Sam demanded, jabbing the tip of the rifle towards the still open door from where he had just come from.

The woman whipped a handgun from under her coat and pointed it at the Winchester. "Put the gun down and we'll talk," she said.

"Fine, fine. Look, I'm setting it down. See?" He soothed, slowly lowering to the ground and setting his weapon under a table. The woman did the same; all the while considering him with a strange look that he couldn't quite categorize.

"Are you Dean?" The woman asked.

"Dean? Who the hell _are _you?"

"Ellen Harvelle. You didn't answer my question."

"Sam Winchester."

"_Sam_?"

"Uh… Yes?"

Suddenly, he was engulfed in a hug. "_Damn_, I thought I'd never see _you_ here!" Ellen exclaimed. "How's John?" she exclaimed brightly, but Sam could detect a well-hidden bitterness underneath her gung-ho attitude. "Treatin' you well I hope."

"What do you mean you never thought you would see me here? Where is _here_ exactly?" The hunter asked, avoiding the latter question.

"Harvelle's Roadhouse of course. Didn't your daddy ever tell you about it? No, of course he didn't. Anyways, this is a place where hunter's come by for a drink every now and again. Maybe pick up a hunt on their way. Hey - how exactly did you make it here without John?"

"Luck I guess. I was driving and decided to stop. Not much sleep lately."

"I'll say," Ellen chastised. "You look like you haven't slept in days, Sam."

"That's because I haven't."

"I know it is a rough job, but that isn't healthy. You 'aint helping anybody by working yourself to death."

"I have somewhere I need to be," the hunter said off-handedly.

"Don't we all?" Ellen sighed.

"It's important. Do you think I could get all of my stuff back? I'll be out of your hair."

"Sam," Ellen frowned, "you aren't bothering anybody bein' here. There was a time when we considered you Winchester's family."

"We?"

"Me an' my daughter Jo. You met her last night."

"Oh, right. I remember Jo. What do you mean 'there was a time'?"

The older woman's face fell into a stony mask. The Winchester immediately knew that he was on thin ice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry," Sam said, adopting the tone he used during hunts to soothe victims. It didn't seem to have any effect on her.

"I'll get your things. Help yourself to a beer if you want," Ellen said stiffly, disappearing behind a door.

Rather than taking her up on the offer, Sam seated himself on one of the tall, rickety stools at the bar. He noticed that the back of the bar was riddled with papers and news clippings of what looked to be missing persons. Sam figured that the setup was for when hunters needed a hunt. Each flyer practically screamed of something supernatural. There was one that caught his eye.

_Daniel Elkins killed during a break-in last Saturday night._

Elkins. The Winchester could have sworn he had seen that name before. Unfortunately, Sam did not have time to think about it, because Ellen returned with all of the hunter's belongings. She was holding a pistol, a small golden charm on a black string, his flip knife, and Sam's utility jacket.

"Is this all of it? I wasn't really paying attention to what I took."

"Yeah that looks like all of it."

"What is this thing?" Ellen asked, holding up the necklace with a free hand.

"It was supposed to be a gift, but it's mine now," Sam replied tightly.

Ellen noticed his unwillingness to talk about it. "Alright then. Here you go."

The woman handed all of Sam's belongings back to him, which the Winchester readily accepted. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"No, really," Sam insisted, "Thank you."

Ellen chuckled slightly. "I couldn't have you dying on my property. Now get out of here," she smiled.

The hunter began to make his way from the bar stool to the front door. He could already hear the wind outside and the small droplets of freezing water striking the window panes of the building.

"Hey Sam," the woman called from behind him.

"Yeah?" the Winchester replied.

"I'll see you soon."

The hunter paused. Ellen was definably a nice person, someone he'd like to get to know better. But then there was the fact that everyone who knew him got hurt. Ellen was a hunter. There was little doubt she couldn't handle herself.

"Hey, uh, Ellen," he began, turning around to face the woman. "Have you ever heard anything about… demons?"

She turned chalk white. "Demons?"

"Yeah, demons; like, bible demons," Sam said unsurely, "from the bible," he added as if he hadn't already articulated his point.

"There is someone," she started, "that may know something." Ellen pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil from behind the bar counter. She began to scribble down letters and numbers rapidly as if she were afraid something might stop her. "He knows more lore than anyone I've ever met before in my life. But, he doesn't really like to help us very much. Maybe you can get him to talk."

Ellen returned to the Winchester and handed the paper to him. It read:

_346 Billings Street_

"Is that nearby?"

"Colorado."

"Colorado? I don't have time to go to Colorado. I need to get to Oklahoma."

"Why?" asked Ellen, confused, "Why Oklahoma?"

"It's complicated, Ellen."

"Fine. You go ahead, and I'll give him a call. I'll ask if he can meet you there. Where are you heading in Oklahoma?"

"I- I… I don't know actually."

"You don't even know? Then why are you rushing there in such a hurry?"

"It's compli-"

"I swear," the woman threatened, "If you tell me one more time that 'it's complicated', I'll wring your throat myself."

Sam believed her.

Ellen sighed, running a hand through her hair absently. Suddenly, the hunter heard footsteps running towards them from one of the hallways. A man burst through a door to his left. The Winchester recognized him immediately. It was the man with a mullet who had been sleeping on the chair where the hunter had woken up a half an hour earlier.

"Yo, Ellen! That Winchester boy of yours is awake!" He called before setting eyes on the tall hunter himself. "Actually, I see you already know that. Couldn't you have woken me up?"

Ellen opened her mouth to say something, but Sam beat her to the punch. "Actually, I was just leaving."

"Hmm, I was looking forward to new company," he complained.

"We get enough wayward brutes already," the woman chastised. "Besides, you can drink enough for all of them."

"Well said sister," the man said.

"That's Ash," she told Sam. "Ash, this is Sam Winchester."

"Nice to meet you," Sam told Ash.

"Likewise. Where are you heading?"

"He says he doesn't know, but it's somewhere in Oklahoma."

"That true?" Ash asked, and the hunter nodded.

"Do you know what it looks like? I could probably track it down for you." The man said.

"You could do that?"

"Almost one-hundred percent sure. There isn't a lot I _can't_ do."

"He was a student at MIT," Ellen said.

"Guilty," the man with the mullet quipped.

"With that haircut?" Sam blurted.

"Business in the front, party in the back," he said, waving to the corresponding sections of his head.

"Right," the Winchester said, cracking a smile. "So what do you need me to do?"

"Well, it would be great if you could just describe the place. Stores, street names, maybe a company logo, license plates; that sort of thing. As much as you can give me."

"Okay. I can do that."

…

About fifteen minutes later, Ash was situated and Sam was free to go with a new phone number. The mullet told him that he would call within the day with his findings. That gave Sam a twelve hour window to do whatever he wanted.

"Hey Ellen," Sam asked over a cup of coffee at a bar table with Ellen, "how far is it to that address you gave me?"

"Two hours, give or take thirty minutes."

"Who is he? The man at the address."

"He never gives us the same name twice, but his information is always good. I haven't seen a case yet that he's helped us with that has gone wrong. We don't know who his informants are but they've not been wrong yet. To be honest, it's a little disconcerting sometimes."

"Well what do you call him?"

"The jerk."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. He marches in here, messes with ninety percent of my customers and then downs more alcohol than I thought was possible. After paying, he leaves and I don't see hide nor tail of him for another few months when he comes back."

"What do you mean 'messes with people'?"

"Hell, I'm not sure. Weird things just seem to happen around that man. Weird for even me. He seemed to have an especially bad problem with Gordon Walker. Hey, listen, Sam. You might want to leave soon if you want to have time to make it to this guy's place and be back before Ash finishes up in there."

"Good idea. Thank you again for everything Ellen."

"I want to see you back here, okay Winchester?"

"Sure Ellen."

With that having been said, Sam returned the cup he had been drinking from to the sink, grabbed his belongings and headed outside into the light drizzling storm. The Impala was exactly where he had left it the night before, and just as still.

"Sorry about that," the hunter told the car absently, apologizing for leaving it out in the elements. The car, in return, was absolutely silent.

It was about two and a half hours later when Sam found himself at a very familiar street, under very different circumstances. Though, he failed to pinpoint exactly how he knew the area. That seemed to happen to him more and more often as of late.

The door was a vibrant yellow. A powerful wave of Deja-vu struck the Winchester. It was so potent that it was impossible to not to try and figure out where he knew the place from. He was so absorbed in his own little world that he completely missed the figure standing in the window.

Sam shook his head like a wet dog (which he was, because it was raining) to rid himself of the thoughts. Almost angrily, the Winchester knocked on the front door.

The effect was immediate. The yellow door swung inwards, revealing a short, smiling man. "I thought you'd never make it!" he exclaimed, practically dragging the hunter in by one hand. It struck Sam where he was now.

"You're that bartender!" he exclaimed in complete and utter shock.

Gabe smirked, "You think I'd make a more lasting impression. I guess I'll take what I can get."

"What the Hell!"

The shorter man scoffed. "Yes Sam. This is actually happening."

"You remember my name?"

"Puh-leez, it's hard to forget about six and a half feet of sad puppy when it walks into your bar and starts sulking."

Gabe pulled Sam into a homey living room and pushed him onto an extremely large couch. Somehow he had lost his wet and muddy shoes along the way. The couch was probably the most comfortable thing he had ever sat in. The room itself was a light blue. The wall to his right was made completely out of windows. A flat screen television dominated the wall directly in front of him. The rest of the room was practically covered in full bookshelves.

"I see you are admiring the scenery," Gabe said, eyebrows waggling. The way he said that made Sam think he wasn't talking about the room.

"I didn't drive here to admire the scenery," the Winchester said.

"Let me guess, you need information."

"That was the idea."

"Hmm… What's in it for me?"

"The satisfaction of helping me, of course," Sam snarked.

"Ooh, I like you," the shorter man said, plopping down on the couch uncomfortably close to the Winchester. Sam scooted away.

"What do you want then?" the hunter asked.

"You basically just handed me a blank check, you know. I could ask for anything."

"I am hoping you'll have the decency to ask for something reasonable and something I will agree to."

"Then you don't know me. Indecent and unreasonable are part of my job description."

Sam only sighed.

"Fine fine fine," the man said, "I'll tell you anything you want; provided that I get to come with you."

"What?"

"I'll tell you whatever you want, but only if I get hunt with you."

Sam was dumbfounded. He examined Gabe. He seemed completely sincere. But why would he want to hunt with him? Personal angst aside, it just made no sense. They hardly knew each other. Hunting wasn't exactly a team sport for the most part. There was every opportunity for Gabe to get hurt. Instead of asking why, he asked something completely different.

"Is your real name Gabe?"

It was Gabe's turn to be surprised. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I came here from the roadhouse. Ellen told me about you, and she told me that you never go by the same name twice."

The man was quiet for a few seconds. "Yeah," he said eventually, "my real name is Gabe."

"Then you can come with me," the Winchester told him. "We can hunt together."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Chalking Up to be a Bad Day

…

"Aren't you going to ask _why_ I want to go hunting with you?" Gabe whined from the passenger's seat of the car. It had been awhile since the last time he hadn't been alone in the Impala and Sam was having a hard time getting used to it. Gabe wasn't making it any easier.

"No I'm not."

"But _why_?"

"I'm just not going to, okay?" the taller man responded evenly. To be honest, Sam wasn't going to ask because he was terrified of what the answer may be.

"I don't get you," the other man muttered. "I don't like not getting things."

"Too bad."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabe pouting at him. Doing his best to ignore the shorter man, Sam kept driving. They only had a few more minutes until they arrived back at the roadhouse. The Winchester hadn't called ahead to tell him that he had company, so he doubted that the reuniting would go very well.

"When we get back, can you not mess with everybody there?" the hunter asked.

"What? Did dear old Ellen tell you about my mischievous side?"

"Yeah actually she did," Sam huffed. "So that means no pissing off anyone, okay?"

"But _Sammy…!_"

"Don't call me that. It's creepy."

"Okay Samsquatch."

"Dude!"

"Fine. How about Sammich?" Mmm… sandwich. That makes me hungry. I'm hungry!"

"Just call me Sam, _okay_? We're almost there so calm down!"

The Winchester fought the urge to run a hand over his face. It was like driving with a petulant child! Gabe continued to whine for the next five minutes until Sam finally pulled into the dark roadhouse parking lot. The other man hopped out of the car, sucking on a sucker that he had somehow gotten his hands on. The Winchester wasn't going to ask where he had gotten it from.

They walked in together. Within the minute, the hunter had already lost track of the smaller man in the throng of drunken hunters. The place was busy. There were sounds of what must have been an arcade game from somewhere in the room. There were sounds of laughter and jeering. There were sounds of some strange song that he had never heard of resonating from the speakers. Sam pushed through the crowd and made his way to the back of the room where Ash said he would meet him. He hoped that Gabe wouldn't get into trouble. He intended to get out of there as soon as he could.

"Hey Sam," said Ash from beside a tough-looking man at the bar, polishing a sickle.

_Gordon Walker,_ the name popped into Sam's mind unbidden. He remembered the photo in the hallway from the day before. Gordon peered up at the taller hunter from his work. His eyes were calculating, like a predator. The Winchester gravitated away.

"Hey Ash. Did you find it?"

"I did. It's a small town called Guthrie. Here's the map," he handed him a stack of papers, "I also looked into strange deaths in the area and I came up with nothing. It's a clean area. What do you think you'll find there?"

"Something important," Sam said, slightly unfocused.

Ash noticed and frowned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Why?"

"You've got a scary look on your face. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," the Winchester said, managing a lukewarm smile. "Don't worry about me. Hey, I need to go. Take care of yourself, alright?"

"Yeah, sure man," Ash said unsurely, giving Sam one last once-over before turning and disappearing into the masses of people.

_This is going well enough_, he mused to himself as the hunter too disappeared into the crowd to find Gabe, his new partner.

Gabe actually ended up finding him. The smaller man was flying through the air when he collided into the Winchester's chest, knocking them both to the floor. An extremely angry hunter suddenly appeared out of nowhere, holding a loaded rifle.

"You think this is funny?" she screeched, motioning with the tip of her gun towards where she must have been sitting. There, sitting in her seat, was a plastic skeleton. It looked completely harmless from Sam's point of view from under Gabe and on the floor.

"How did you know?" The hunter shouted, "_how did you know!?"_

"We should _really_ get going," Gabe whispered nonchalantly into Sam's ear from his lap.

The woman, on the other hand, was looking more and more murderous by the second. The Winchester wasn't sure if _she_ had been the one to toss his partner across the room, but he honestly wouldn't put it past her. She looked strong enough to toss Sam _himself_ out the window and not break a sweat.

"What the Hell did you _do_?" Sam demanded.

"Look, we can talk about it later," Gabe said airily.

"Fine. But don't think I'm not mad at you," the hunter hissed, and instantly, they were on their feet and moving as quickly as they could towards the exit.

Employing guerrilla tactics, the two partners managed to lose the psychotic woman in the crowd of people. They ended up outside only through sheer force of will and knocking a few people onto their asses. Gabe managed to convince said hunters that the psychotic woman was the one who shoved them in the first place, making their getaway smoother. Sam wasn't happy about the arrangement in the least. The two hardly managed escape unseen when a huge brawl broke out within the roadhouse.

"I'm really starting to regret allowing you to come along," Sam growled, pinching his nose and leaning up into the sky.

"I'm starting to be glad I _did_," the other exclaimed. "That was _hilarious!"_

"What the hell was that with the skeleton?" the Winchester asked, heading towards the silent, cold Impala sitting on the outskirts of the dark parking lot.

"Let's just say that wasn't the only skeleton I pulled out of her closet," he snickered.

The Winchester unlocked the car door and swung it open; all while glaring at Gabe. Gabe, on the other hand, simply shrugged and climbed into the car after him.

"We aren't going anywhere until you tell me what you did," Sam said crossly. To exercise his point, he locked both car doors and put the keys into his jacket pocket. They nestled right next to his switch knife.

"Sammy," the other man pouted, but the hunter wasn't buying it.

"You heard me."

Gabe continued to pout while pulling a bag of M&M's out of his pocket. The bag wrinkled and popped as the smaller man opened it with his teeth, the thin plastic of the bag sliding open, and then the small chocolates raining down onto his lap and the floor.

"Oops," he smirked, bending down to pick them up.

"Gabe," the hunter said menacingly.

"I'm shaking in my shoes, kiddo! You are just too damn scary for the likes of me," the nuisance jeered happily.

Sam deflated. "Fine," he grunted, digging out the keys once again from his pocket. "But don't think I'll forget about this. Don't do it again or we will have a problem."

"Glad you see sense, Sam-I-Am."

"It's Sam."

"Sammich."

"_Sam."_

"Keep going and I'll start to make them more embarrassing," Gabe taunted.

"Then I'll just stab you while you're sleeping."

"Sam's-Culottes."

"Shut up," the Winchester acquiesced, shoving the keys into the ignition more forcefully than he had intended to. Mentally apologizing to the machine, he switched it on and it came alight, roaring gleefully in anticipation of returning to the road. Instead of doing that, however, the hunter pulled far enough away from the roadhouse for them not to be seen.

"This is your last chance to back out," Sam said wryly.

"What?" said the other, distracted by the pack of candy he recently opened and dumped everywhere.

"I said; this is your last chance to back out of our deal. As annoying as you are, I don't want to be responsible for your death. It just isn't worth anything you could possibly tell me."

Gabe looked up from his chocolate-smeared lap, appearing astounded. "You think it would be that easy to get rid of me?"

"It isn't about what I want," he stressed, "It's about you _not dying_."

"Don't worry about me, kiddo. This wouldn't be my first rodeo. Your concern is cute, though. You should do that more often."

"Do you have to treat everything like a joke?"

"Hmm," the shorter man thought for a second, theatrically tapping his chin. "Yes."

Sam rolled his eyes and drove out towards the road. The car jarred and bumped along the uneven pavement until they were well away from the Harvelle's home. The night was young, the stars were just returning to the sky after the daytime. From somewhere over the horizon was the moon. There were a few clouds in the sky.

"We are heading to Oklahoma," Sam informed the other.

"Oklahoma?" Gabe quipped, "Why there?"

"Because I know we will find something there," the Winchester said without looking away from the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his partner look contemplative. It unnerved him for a moment, but he shook off the feeling. "Do you have a problem with Oklahoma?"

"What is it that you think we will find?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

Gabe nodded absently. The rest of the ride was in silence.

…

The motel at Guthrie was quaint and not a hovel; as opposed to what Sam was used to squatting in. This was mostly because of the smaller man's apparently deep pocket and strangely charming personality. He had somehow earned the pair of them a two bed, two bath room, complete with a scenic view. Not to mention the fifty percent discount.

Gabe had borrowed Sam's laptop and was currently chipping away on the keys, doing who-knows-what. Sam was browsing through the last months' worth of police archives on recent deaths in the area. So far, the Winchester had come up with jack squat.

"Hey, Sammy, look at this," said the other man, turning the laptop to face the taller of the two. It was a website depicting a young man, Andy Smith, backstage at an Aerosmith concert with a friend. The two were smiling broadly at the camera and were both laden with merchandise.

"Yeah, and?" Sam grunted, not all happy to be disturbed from his research.

"_And,_" the man stressed, "both of these guys are butt poor. See little Andy here?" He motioned to the scruffiest of the pair, "he is so deep in debt; I wouldn't doubt he knows just how hot the core of the Earth is. _And_, he has no debt flags. Doesn't that seem odd to you?"

The hunter frowned. Yes, that was odd. But did it constitute a lead? No.

"Do you need more evidence? Fine. Give me ten minutes."

The tapping continued as the former bartender began to delve into Andy's life once more. It was exactly eight minutes when he turned to Sam again, vying for his attention.

"What now?" he sighed.

"Andy Gallagher's house went up in flames in 1983. The fire originated from the nursery on his six month birthday. Now tell me that isn't suspicious."

"I- what?" Sam was stunned. "How did you know?" he asked softly, trying to work through all the details in vain.

"Ellen told you I was an expert, did she not?"

"Then what does it mean? My… my mom died the same way. How did you know?" The Winchester said quietly at first, but then grew angrier.

"Calm down Sam and let me explain."

"How the hell did you know all of that!?"

Gabe had the audacity to look abashed. Sam looked at him, _really looked at him_. He studied every detail he could find. John Winchester had instilled into him over the years that _everyone _had a motive. _Everyone _has secrets. _Everyone _is out to get you, and the only people you can trust are your own family. Sam had never taken that advice up until now. Gabe was looking down at his feet, looking for something to say. His hair was immaculate, even though the two of them had been up for over twelve hours. He was charming. He was well-off. He had all the information Sam needed. Something was off about this man.

"Who are you?" Sam asked evenly, coolly.

Gabe looked up. "Gabe Novak," he said with a slight smirk.

"How did you come by this information?" he inquired, cut-throat. Sam was in his comfort zone. Asking questions was his specialty.

"I do my research. I've been at this job for a long time Sammich."

"You looked specifically for someone like Andy, didn't you?"

The man paused, clearly not expecting that particular question. After his hesitation, he shook his head. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Why?"

"Your friend Ellen told you about my specialty, didn't she?" He waited for the hunter to nod his agreement. "I look into things that are weird even for hunters."

"You talk about hunters like you aren't one."

"I'm not, not really."

"Then what _are _you?"

Something flashed across Gabe's features too fast for the Winchester to notice consciously. Instead, the emotion was quietly catalogued into Sam's subconscious. Outwardly, however, the shorter man dug into his pocket and pulled out a Hershey bar, mostly to give his hands something to do.

"A specialist," Gabe assured. "Just a specialist."

"A specialist." The hunter stated. "A specialist who is interested in me, too?"

The former nodded, fiddling with the smooth plastic of the chocolate.

"Why is the house fire important?" The Winchester demanded. "How does it draw Andy and I together?"

Now, the former bartender was looking uncomfortable. The hunter noticed this, and began to press for his advantage. "Why, Gabe? Why did you want to come with me? I should have asked before. Nobody wants to be in this life, unless they are suicidal, and you don't seem like the suicidal type to me. I've met plenty too, and you are nothing like them. So what makes me so damn special!?" The last word of his tirade hung in the air for a moment, or for forever. Neither man was quite sure.

"Can I make a deal with you?" Gabe asked quietly, all humor drained from his expression.

Sam raised an eyebrow, not yet willing to speak.

"I'll tell you why as soon as I know for sure."

The quiet was stifling. The Winchester found it hard to breath. He was very well aware that if he agreed, there was a possibility that he would never find the answer to his questions. There was also every opportunity that he _would _know. It had been all too long that he had trusted anyone other than John; but even his own father had let him down.

"Fine."

With that single syllable uttered, the Winchester turned tail and stalked out of the room.

…

Andy Gallagher was a hard man to find. According to the local library's computer database, Andy's last location of employment was a diner only a ten minutes' walk away. He got there in five.

"You won't get anything of Andy. Sorry, but they never do."

"They?" Sam inquired calmly to the girl pouring him more coffee.

"You're a debt collector, right? Once and a while they come by. I don' know what Andy says to them, but, they never come back."

"I'm actually a lawyer," Sam said; a small ache running up his spine at the mention of his dream profession. "I represent his great-aunt Lita. She had recently passed away and left him a sizable estate. Are you a friend of his?"

"I used to be, yeah. I don't see much of Andy anymore."

"Andy?" said an excited young man a few years younger than the Winchester himself. "Andy kicks ass man! He can get you into anything! He even got me backstage Aerosmith once; it was beautiful, bro."

The waitress looked annoyed by the man's outbreak of enthusiasm. "Uh huh yeah, why not bussing a table or two, Webber?"

The man, Webber, looked awkwardly from Sam to the waitress and back to Sam, seeming to contemplate something. Apparently making a decision, he said "Yeah, you bet boss," and then shuffled away even more awkwardly, giving the Winchester an embarrassed semi-wave.

"Look," the girl half laughed-half sighed, "If you wanna find him, try Orchard Street. Just look for a van with a barbarian queen painted on the side. She's riding a polar bear. It's kinda hard to miss."

The girl was true to her word. Not fifteens' worth of looking and Sam found himself in front of a freakishly detailed, scantily dressed Viking queen, riding atop a polar bear. He stared at the mural for a good minute before remembering that he had work to do.

"Andy Gallagher?" He called out to the car. No answer. Peering into the driver's seat, he came across nothing. A quick look in the trunk pulled out drugs, a disco ball and shaggy carpet. Apparently, Andy wasn't home.

"Uh, excuse me?" sounded a voice, "What exactly are you doing?"

Sam turned around slowly, wanting to seem like he was supposed to be there. The man who spoke was wearing a shiny black robe and looked like he had just crawled out of bed. His hair was ruffled and sticking up in odd places and he needed to shave. It was Andy Gallagher.

"Hello," the hunter said cheerfully, happy that he had dawned on his suit before he left the motel.

"What are you doing going through my van?"

"Well," Sam said, digging out his wallet from his pocket, "I am with the state police. I need to ask you a few questions." He pulled out his fake state trooper card and flashed it to the scruffy, confused man in front of him. Andy took it and examined it, then handed it back; seemingly pleased and unhappy with it.

"So, if I could just-"

"Well, actually, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Excuse me, sir?"

The man looked confused for a split second, but then recomposed himself. He adjusted the ugly robe around his shoulders. "I said, I don't think you want to ask me any questions."

It was the Winchester's turn to be confused. Was this a joke? "I'm sorry, sir; but I do need to ask you questions. As you saw by my card-"

"Go away," Andy exclaimed, more forcefully than before.

"Andy, I'm not going anywhere. I just need a few minutes of your time."

"Go away!"

"Why are you telling me to go away? I am a police officer! I can have you detained!"

"How are you doing that?" the man shouted, drawing the attention of a few pedestrians.

"Doing what?"

"Why aren't you going away? Tell the truth!"

"Is this how you get out of all your debts, Andy?" Sam asked, changing tides.

"Tell me how you're doing that!"

"Listen here," Sam growled, getting up close to the scruffy man. "Whatever it is that you're doing, _it's not working_. So just stop and tell me what the hell you are."

"What are you talking about, man?" he whined, backing away from the towering hunter. "I'm just Andy!"

The Winchester let out a crude snort. "I'll believe _that_ when the world ends. Tell me what your plans are before I do something you might regret."

"Plans? What plans? Go away!"

"I'm not going away!"

Suddenly, three police cars tore down the street. By this time it was getting late; the sun was setting over the roofs of the buildings that lined the streets. The light illuminated Sam's furious face and Andy's terrified one. Gritting his teeth, the hunter turned towards the cowering man. He poked him roughly in the chest. "_I'm not finished with you yet_."

For the second time that day, Sam turned and left.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: My Twin Killed Four People

…

By the time the Winchester arrived at the crime scene, it was too late. There was a small crowd of people gathering around a seemingly normal house. It was dark at this point. The sky was overcast and Sam could feel it begin to drizzle. Despite the weather conditions, the crowd stubbornly remained in their fixed positions as semi-silent guards watching over the area. A quick conference with a neighbor and Sam gathered that a man had supposedly committed suicide in the garage.

The hunter's heart dropped. It was all utterly surreal as he approached the line of police officers that congregated in the garage. He pulled out his fake FBI badge, flashing it to the men and women working. They let him past without too much trouble. That's when Sam saw the crying woman.

"Hello," Sam said to the woman, who was holding a tissue up to her face, wiping away the many tears that cascaded from her eyes. She didn't say anything in return, but she looked up from the cement flooring and into the Winchester's eyes. He fought the urge to shift uncomfortably.

"I'm here with the FBI," he stated, drawing out the fake card once again and flashed it. She nodded slightly, visibly trying to get herself together. "I was wondering if I could ask a few questions."

"Sure," she croaked, "but; how did you get here so quickly?"

"We like to stay on top of things," Sam shrugged.

"Okay," she said, sniffling.

Meanwhile, Gabriel was pacing back and forth in the motel room. His every step screamed agitation, but his face was a mask of contemplation. He knew that he should probably go after Sam, just to make sure that no harm befell the unfortunate human; but, he was not exactly a straight forward being. No. He specialized in messed-up sideways and backwards methods. He was the anti-thesis to all of the Host of Heaven. No biggie.

The kid was smarter than Gabriel had first credited him. He asked the right questions, even if he didn't quite know it. Gabe had been spending the last twenty years or so tailing Azazel, the yellow-eyed demon. He had his suspicions that the creature of Hell had been gunning towards the apocalypse, and he had been right. Though, the trickster hadn't known the full extent of it.

The prophecies had been sung throughout the entire Host of Heaven for millennia. Two human brothers would become the chosen vessels of Michael and Lucifer, and then duel to the death on the chosen field. Gabriel had tuned out the songs after he ran away until he couldn't hear them anymore; even if he had wanted to. In hindsight, that had been a bad idea. The Archangel was at a loss for information.

Gabriel had simply assumed that Azazel would force his blood onto a single infant, giving the trickster the means to easily identify Lucifer's vessel. Unfortunately, it seemed that the demon had no idea who to even _give_ the blood to in the first place. This resulted in a few thousand or so children Gabe had to sort through to find the true vessel, each one with just as much taint as the last. There were certain factors that made the job easier, however. Girls were ruled out, those with a sister, or more or less than one sibling. That narrowed down the pool to about two or three hundred people.

The trickster sighed loudly. He had been skipping around from person to person, spending a few weeks with each one and trying to figure out if they were who he was looking for or not. Sam originally had been at the top of his list of bunk-mates, but that damn John Winchester had been keeping him too well hidden. They moved around constantly, never staying in one place for more than a week and a half. Once he had finally found the moose of a man, the pool of "gifted" children had dwindled to less than twenty.

He had been starting to lose hope that he would ever be successful.

That is, until just a few short months ago, the tall man had hobbled into the bar where he was squatting as an employee and ordered a salad and coffee. Almost immediately the trickster could sense something different about Sam. It may have just been the dirt and dabs of dried blood on his jacket, however.

Yeah, Sam was special all right. The only problem was whether or not he should do anything about it just yet.

_Ice cream, ice cream, we all scream for ice cream!_ Gabriel's phone rang to alert him of an incoming call from the pocket of his jacket. The Archangel jammed his hand into the side and pulled it out, trying not to sound annoyed when he answered the phone. "Hey-o Sam-o!"

"Gabe."

"Whacha need?"

"I was hoping you could look up telekinesis. I'll admit I'm at a bit of a loss."

"No need. Research is too boring anyways. Well, maybe just the way _you_ do research."

"Look, Gabe-"

"I know all about telekinesis, so just lay it all on me."

"You know about it? How?"

"Specialist, remember?"

The line was quiet for a second. The only assurance that Sam was still there was the faint murmuring of a crowd and his breathing. "I remember," the hunter finally answered coldly.

"So go ahead then, kiddo."

There was an annoyed sigh. "Fine. A man just supposedly committed suicide inside of his garage. But it wasn't a suicide."

"How do you know?"

The Winchester hesitated ever so slightly. It was so brief that even Gabriel had almost missed it. But before he could comment, Sam was off like a rocket. "There were some signs of a struggle. His wife said he had been just fine the day before. He even called about fifteen or so minutes before he died, saying that he would be home soon and that he loved her. Nobody had been around the house for miles, and apparently the garage door shut on its own accord."

"Quite a story there," Gabe commented. "Why do you think it was Professor X?"

"I just do."

The trickster snorted. There was an annoyed sigh on the other end.

"Just trust me on this, okay?"

"Fine, fine. Whatever you say, Winchester. If it _was _someone with telekinetic powers, than they would have had to have been reasonably strong. It doesn't sound like witches to me, not their style. I doubt any minor gods would have acted on a single guy, either. They tend to like mass destruction, if anything."

"Minor gods?"

"Yeah, gods," Gabe said, waving his hand theatrically even though no one was there to see it. "Anansi, Tyr, Freyr, Jörmungandr, you name it, we'll pack and ship."

"They exist?"

The Archangel held back another snort. Sure, the Winchester was smart, but he was also so Dad-damned _stupid._ "Yeah, obviously."

"Obviously?" Sam asked, incredulous. "I don't see how you can know for sure."

Gabe pointedly ignored Sam.

"So who was it?" the hunter gave in after a few moments. "Any ideas?"

_Yes_, Gabe thought. "Lemme get back to you on that one," the Trickster opted for instead of the former.

There was another pause, and then the line shut down with a pixilated _click._

Gabriel frowned at the wall. He was wondering why Sam would have jumped to the telekinetic-conclusion so fast. He sincerely doubted that the giant had been tipped off by someone, otherwise he himself would have known. Sure, the Archangel had dropped a few hints; but they were obscure enough to be left alone. Unless… the Winchester had already developed his demon-y powers.

Gabriel could have slapped himself in the face. Duh, of course he had! He had already turned 22, which means that his abilities had already manifested. A jolt of panic struck Gabriel. He was running out of time. Quickly, he pocketed his phone and rushed out the door, heading for Sam's location.

There wasn't much left for Sam to do at the crime scene, so instead of heading back to the motel, where Gabe would be inevitably waiting, he opted for a late dinner at a local Dairy Queen. The air was frigid inside the horrendous black, white, and red painted store. It smelled like cleaning detergent and wet metal. The once neon orange counter where the Winchester had ordered his chicken sandwich and water was sticky with spilled soft-serve.

Laden with a small bag of food, he found an empty booth and seated himself, the equally neon orange, plastic covered cushions squeaking under his weight. The cashier threw him a half-hearted glare, yawned, lost interest, and then looked away again. Sam pulled out the sandwich and took a bite. It was dry, but tasteful. By no accounts the worst meal he had had in his travels. He took another bite, barely registering the tingling bell that announced a new customer.

"Sam?"

The hunter looked up. A man stood in the shadows beneath a broken light bulb.

"Gabe?"

The man didn't say anything, merely beckoned with one hand and disappeared out of the door. There was no mistaking that he wanted the Winchester to follow. Downing the last of his chicken, Sam threw away the paper bag, grabbed his water bottle and followed.

"Over here," the man said. Sam could hardly see the figure, it was getting very dark.

"Gabe, this isn't funny. Did you find something useful or are you just trying to annoy me?"

"Who is Gabe?" the man asked.

A strange lurch shot through the Winchester. "Seriously, stop it." He stepped towards the mysterious man. He wasn't much shorter than himself, and much taller than the former bartender. Serious eyes glared at him, reflecting the low lighting. Sam could make out ragged clothes and an unshaved face.

"Sam, it's me."

Realization struck; he knew that voice. "Dad?"

"It's good to see you again, Sam. Who is Gabe?"

The younger hunter could have laughed. John was all business as usual. "My… partner," his voice wavered on the word partner. There wasn't really a word for what they word. Perhaps a more apt description would be "dick in crime". "He's been helping me on this case, he calls himself a specialist."

"A specialist in what, exactly?" John frowned, regarding Sam with a cool curiosity.

"Just a specialist," Sam mimicked Gabe from earlier that day.

The frown deepened, but luckily he didn't comment. "Did you want something, or were you just stopping by to say hello?" The younger Winchester demanded, a small amount of malice seeping into his voice.

"Have you done what I asked?"

Sam paused. John was looking at him with such intensity that it made the hunter want to take a few steps back. He couldn't remember his father _ever_ looking at him like that. "Are you okay, sir?"

John chuckled, honest to god _chuckled_. "Sorry, it's just been Hell trying to find you." He offered Sam a sharp smile that reminded him of a hungry shark. The smile was foreign on his father's face, but the Winchester felt he had seen it before. Setting his odd notions aside, Sam examined his father closer. He looked like he hadn't washed in days. It also looked like he hadn't had much sleep lately. In the low lighting, John's eyes looked dark. It all set Sam's hunter instincts on edge.

"How about," the taller man said carefully, "You tell me where you disappeared off to for months and months, _then _I'll talk about that damn warehouse."

The frown returned, and he opened his mouth to speak. Just before Sam could brace himself for whatever anger his father would spew, a familiar face appeared around the corner of the Dairy Queen. "Heya, Sam!"

"Gabe," Sam said, half angrily, half relieved.

"Gabe?" John exclaimed in shock. Sam raised an eyebrow at him. Why would he be so surprised?

Gabe, on the other hand, took one look at his father and tensed. It was so subtle that Sam was lucky to spot it. His hunter instincts at this point were screaming bloody murder at him. Something was very, _very _wrong with this situation. His hand went unconsciously to his pocket, where the old flip knife was kept hidden and safe. John, however, tracked this movement and grabbed the hand, pulling him away from Gabe. "Sam, stay away from him!" he hissed.

"Dad, stop! What are you doing?" The Winchester yelled, trying to pry the arm off of his own. "Gabe's a good guy, he's my friend!" he said desperately.

"He's not human," came the snarling reply.

"Get off of him! He's not yours!" The former bartender lunged at John, striking out with a bottle of water that Sam hadn't noticed he'd had. The liquid splashed all over his shirt and his father's face behind him. His father's reaction was immediate. Screeching and clawing at his face, the man stumbled backwards, releasing Sam.

The Winchester was immediately at his friend's side. Gabe shoved the half-full bottle of water into Sam's scratched hands. He looked furious, his jaw was set, and his hands clenching. "Next time," Gabe insisted, directing his voice at the _thing_, "don't be a dick and attack Sam."

The demon recollected itself and grinned, spitting excess liquid onto the dirt. "I have to admit, the holy water was a surprise," it sneered, "But then again, so were you."

Gabe snorted, his eyes flashing. Sam gripped the holy water tighter. "Let Sam's father go."

"Hmm," the demon pondered, "I don't think so. I like it in here. He puts up quite a fight, almost a challenge." In reply, the former bartender took a threatening step forward. The demon flinched, but recovered and smirked again. "Nuh-uh, I don't think so," it said in a sing-song voice. Suddenly, John was gone.

"Damn," Gabe growled, deflating.

"What the Hell just happened?" Sam demanded, shoving the bottle into his pocket. It made a quiet _clink_ when it hit his flip knife.

"Your father is possessed by a demon," he said bluntly, running a hand through his hair.

"I hadn't noticed," Sam snapped.

"We need to get out of here. That demon will tell others and then they will come looking for y- us."

The hunter let out a shaky breath then nodded. They would talk later. Right now, they were both in danger. Gabe shot back with a weak smile, grabbed Sam's hand tenderly, and then the both of them started back to the motel. Luckily, the trip was uneventful. Unluckily, however, it was nearly two in the morning by the time they got back.

"Is your arm okay?" Gabe asked when Sam was stripping from his wrinkled, cheap suit. One of the cuffs was torn, and it smelled like musty air, sweat, and dumpster trash. He peeled the white-ish undershirt off the skin of his back and turned to face Gabe. Gabe's eyes snapped up from his naked backside to his face.

"Uh, yeah… My arm is fine," Sam said awkwardly, a pink tint rising onto his face. Quickly, he tossed the shirt onto his bed and waddled into the bathroom, pretending not to feel eyes on his back the entire time. He shut the door behind him and started the shower soon after. Stepping in was like stepping into a cool rain after a hot day.

The shower didn't last as long as Sam had wanted it to. Out of mostly habit, Sam kept it to less than five minutes and stepped out again, feeling somewhat refreshed. He scanned the room for the clothes he had brought in with him… and came up with nothing.

_Shit_, the Winchester thought. He had forgotten the change in the other room. Wryly, he wrapped the towel around his waist and pinched it at his side. With his free hand he opened the door. A blast of cool air made his skin prickle. Gabe was sitting on his bed eating a bar of chocolate and watching the television. He didn't seem to notice the hunter. As quietly as possible, Sam snuck around the outskirts of the room, keeping his _friendly_ friend in his sight at all times. At last, he found his duffle bag. Quickly, he snatched a pair of shorts and a T-shirt off the top and turned back to return to the bathroom.

Gabe was gaping at him. The chocolate had stopped halfway to his mouth. The hunter froze like a child caught stealing cookies from the jar. They both stared at each other for an indefinite amount of time; each man too startled to be caught that they couldn't move. The levels of awkwardness skyrocketed exponentially every second.

Sam was the first to break eye contact. Muttering something unintelligible, he made a hasty retreat to the bathroom. Closing the door again behind him he let out a long breath, and shaking off an odd feeling in his stomach. It must have been the chicken sandwich.

When he finally deemed himself decent, Sam returned to the main room like nothing had happened. The TV was off and there was a fresh pile of candy wrappers on the floor. With hardly enough light to see by, the Winchester flipped open his phone from where it had been sitting on the nightstand and used it like a flashlight.

The other man was sleeping, curled up in the middle of Sam's bed like a giant cat. The hunter chuckled softly, pulling a spare blanket out of a nearby closet and covered the former bartender with it. Satisfied with his work, he claimed Gabe's bed - the part not covered with chocolate anyways. Soon Sam drifted off to sleep, not knowing that an Archangel was watching over him.


End file.
